


Demain, Qui Sait?

by snark_sniper



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wedding Planner, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Burn, Widowed, canada totally ships fruk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:50:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snark_sniper/pseuds/snark_sniper
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy, wedding planner, isn't quite ready for his first case after his wife's death. Arthur Kirkland, engaged to Alfred Jones, isn't quite ready for his own wedding.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was on tumblr and I reblogged this (http://snark-sniper.tumblr.com/post/153750127144/a-bunch-of-weddingengangement-themed-prompts#notes) and I was thinking to myself (and therefore rambling in the tags about it), "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if we had a FrUK wedding planner scenario?" And then I got an anon request to write it. And then I was like, "Oh, I'll just write a scene," and then I was like, "Oh, maybe I can do this in 5,000 words," and now I have themes that I feel like I need to follow through on, so I tentatively put myself down for three chapters so I could give myself a stopping point and go study for my business exam.
> 
> I'm going to try this new thing where I DON'T write the whole fic before posting it, and see where that gets me.
> 
> Title from "Je t'écris d'Angleterre" ("I'm writing you from England"), which I saw in a FrUK AMV a few years back and which was stuck in my head as I wrote this; it translates as "tomorrow, who knows?"

For the first time in a long while, Francis has forgotten Jeanne.

He’s working late into the night, doing all but designing the waistcoat and jacket himself. Because that’s what Arthur Kirkland wants—not a dress like his brothers and his fiancé tease him about, but a proper waistcoat.

Mr. Kirkland’s tastes in all else are equally proper, and Francis gets the sense that he and Alfred Jones—the fiancé—disagree on such matters. But with Mr. Jones too busy and Mr. Kirkland being the only one to attend the initial meeting, Francis only has the view of one of the two spouses.

Francis sits up straight, realizing at once that he’s begun to slouch over his work table. His eyes flick away from the screen of his laptop, filled with designs he needs to propose, to the photo he keeps at his workstation at home.

Jeanne wanted a simpler wedding, he thinks. White flowers, an intimate gathering, a humble church. Her funeral looked much the same.

Francis shakes his head. At least for a moment, the challenge of catering to Mr. Kirkland—soon to be Jones—has drawn him away from the mourning stupor that has swallowed him in the past several months.

Francis reviews his hodgepodge handwritten notes beside him.

 _Yellow/blue flowers—European if poss._  
_Old church (cathedral?)_  
_Lace_  
_Doves? Or rice…_  
_Reception:_  
_-large tables_  
_-only friends ( & Kirkland brothers)_  
_-rock music??_

The initial consultation with Mr. Kirkland veered in a sharp turn when the groom-to-be firmly insisted on rock music. If nothing else, this enigma is the only thing keeping Francis focused on his work. After all, how to integrate a string quartet and the Stones?

* * *

“Don’t you have any tea?”

Francis hums absently.

“Mr. Bonnefoy.”

“Yes?” Francis looks up from his armchair. Staying up as late as he has—and yet failing to fall asleep until hours after he finished, Jeanne’s eyes haunting him as always—he’s finding himself entirely too lost in his notes.

Arthur Kirkland frowns, unimpressed. “Tea.”

“Ah. Yes, right.” Francis stands, but he forgets that his laptop is charging and snags his shin on the cord. As he stumbles and rights himself, he looks up to see Mr. Kirkland holding his hands up as if taming a horse.

“Er. No, that’s quite alright, I’ll get it,” says Mr. Kirkland. He looks over Francis with a warier eye, and Francis wonders if his gaze lingers on his baggy eyes and the stain on his collar.

“Thank you,” says Francis. “There’s some Twinnings right beside the kettle.”

“I see it,” says Mr. Kirkland, now calling from the kitchen.

Francis takes a second to violently shake his head, willing himself to wake up. This is his first big case since Jeanne’s death, and he can’t afford to mess up for someone as fastidious as Mr. Kirkland and as—let’s face it—wealthy as Mr. Jones.

He locates his notes for today’s discussion and reviews them in the minutes it takes for the tea to boil and for Mr. Kirkland to rummage around in the cabinet above the kettle for cups. He emerges with two mugs, one of which Francis recognizes with a jolt in his gut.

“You know, we might have rescheduled if you phoned ahead,” says Mr. Kirkland.

To Francis’s infinite relief, he holds out to Francis the red and blue fleur-de-lis mug that belonged to Jeanne.

“Ah,” says Francis, taking the mug with both hands, “but if we go by that logic, you and I will never again meet until your wedding day. Weddings are inherently stressful, Mr. Kirkland.”

Mr. Kirkland hums noncommittally and sits in the chair across from Francis’s. The laptop sits on the coffee table between them. “So I’ve been told,” he says. “And I confess that I rather wish we didn’t have to go through with it all. But Alfred wants to make a good impression on my brothers after not having asked for the family’s blessing, and if he wants a wedding, I at least want a proper one.”

“Most grooms would ask for a memorable one.”

Mr. Kirkland snorts. “Given my brothers, it’ll be bloody memorable, all right.”

Despite himself, Francis smiles. “Tell me more about your brothers. I imagine I’ll need to prepare some measures to minimize their damage.”

As he speaks, he blows off a wisp of steam and takes a sip from his mug. He pauses, looking down at the tea bag steeping in his mug.

Mr. Kirkland notices his confused expression. “I saw you had some English Breakfast behind your oolongs. Can’t have you falling asleep any more than you are, now, can I?”

Francis hums thoughtfully and takes a deeper sip. “How kind of you.”

* * *

Francis’s third meeting with Arthur Kirkland takes place in public, two weeks after their last meeting and three after the initial visit. Alfred Jones has insisted they meet at a Starbucks halfway across the city from Francis’s flat.

“Hope it wasn’t too long a commute,” says Mr. Jones, shaking Francis’s hand with a grip that inadvertently cracks a few knuckles. “Arthur wouldn’t tell me where your base of operations is, and hey, here’s close to my work!”

“ _Couldn’t_ —I _couldn’t_ tell you,” says Mr. Kirkland at Mr. Jones’s side. He offers a handshake that doesn’t make Francis’s fingers throb nearly as much, and turns to his fiancé. “The first time we met we had lunch, and the second time we went to his flat.”

“I go where I’m needed,” says Francis with a professional smile. “Please, let’s sit.” He doesn’t mention that he has never enjoyed the burnt flavor of Starbucks’ coffee, and neither Mr. Kirkland nor Jones seem to protest that he’s not ordering. Mr. Jones has already bought something exceedingly tall and filled with ice and sugar, and Mr. Kirkland has taken tea.

“So,” says Francis once they’re seated, “I’m aware that Mr. Kirkland is hoping for a more traditional wedding, but Mr. Jones, I thought I might request your input. What kind of ceremony do you see yourself having?”

“Oh. Huh.” Jones looks at a loss. He takes a contemplative sip from his straw. “I guess I never really had anything in mind. Figured we’d just get married, right?”

Francis isn’t one to stereotype, but he immediately sorts Jones in the mental category of “helpless groom”. He reframes his questions. “Let’s start with locale. Your fiancé has requested a church, and I have connections at some very nice ones downtown—”

Jones snaps his fingers. “We could have a beach wedding.”

Francis and Mr. Kirkland stare at him.

“Alfred, love,” begins Mr. Kirkland, “you could have said something much earlier if you were thinking about that.”

“I mean…yeah, I guess, but I just thought of it.” Jones leans forward, a gleam in his eyes. “Kiku and Mattie could bring supersoakers, too, for when we’re kissing and all. Hell, everyone could have a squirt gun! Then we could have the reception right there, maybe a buffet or something—”

“You mean…you want us to be squirted with water the minute we’re married?” Something in Mr. Kirkland’s tone weighs far too much to be casual.

“It’d be a little fun, you gotta admit,” says Jones. “I mean, after all the seriousness and the vows, you need something, am I right?” He looks at Francis expectantly. Francis doesn’t know what he’s expecting.

“Alright,” says Mr. Kirkland. His fingers wrap around his cup lightly but with a tense grip, as if they were Alfred’s neck. “Water guns aside, you expect your boss, the entire board of directors, the CEO of your job, and pretty much everyone who knows me in New York City—to stand on a beach carrying a water pistol?”

“Thought you were leaving the water guns aside,” says Jones. He looks chagrined, but a glint of defiance remains in his set jaw.

“I’m only saying, it doesn’t quite seem the place to invite everyone if you want to make a good impression—”

“Oh? And what makes a good impression, Artie? Some stuffy church neither of us go to? You don’t even know if you’re Catholic or Protestant, so what’s the point in choosing if you’re just going to be angry with yourself for years because you chose the wrong one?”

“Alright,” butts in Francis. “Let’s hold off on a discussion of the venue. We have plenty of time to decide, after all.” He neglects to mention that many of the venues he books have months-long waiting lists, but the slump in Mr. Kirkland’s and Jones’s shoulders makes the omission worth it. “How about the reception? It can be held separately from the wedding, of course. Mr. Jones, I understand you enjoy rock music?”

“Ehhhhh… That’s more Artie’s thing,” says Jones. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love me some classic rock, but I’m more of a pop guy, you know? Oh! But Green Day’s pretty great.”

“Classic rock, alright,” says Francis before Mr. Kirkland can intervene, “let’s discuss a little more. What are some of your favorite songs?”

Francis has a long meeting ahead of him.

* * *

Around a month and a half into his acquaintance with Mr. Kirkland and Jones, Francis picks up work for another client, a Mr. Oxenstierna and Mr. Vainamoinen. They appear to be a very low-maintenance couple, low enough to the point where Francis really doubts he’s needed, but he takes their case all the same.

Francis has an odd quirk of being able to focus on each case only in a very specific location. Jones and Kirkland are a fluke—he works from home for their case because he was initially so shocked to have work, and too shy still to venture into the outside world. But for his newest clients, he takes up near-daily residence at Amante Café, run by his friend Antonio and his spouse Lovino.

He’s hunched over the laptop when he hears the voice.

“Mr. Bonnefoy?”

Francis looks up to see none other than Arthur Kirkland, an umbrella tucked under his arm and a cup of—well, he would be amiss not to guess tea. Mr. Kirkland looks ready to stay for a while.

“Mr. Kirkland,” says Francis, smiling and straightening up. “Pleasure to see you here.” He doesn’t realize until after he’s spoken that, because he’s been torn out of his work and lost concentration, his French accent is a little stronger.

Mr. Kirkland raises an eyebrow. “You look well,” he says. “A bit harried, maybe. I hope Alfred’s ideas haven’t been keeping you up very late.”

“Oh, no, I have another client,” says Francis. “I’m working on their case now.” He works to smooth out his accent, though he knows it will never quite go away. Jeanne always teased him for never being able to rid himself of the French-sounding “r”. The passing memory dims his smile by half a watt.

Mr. Kirkland looks at the laptop Francis is working on. His eye rests on his left hand. “Won’t your wife be missing you?” he asks.

“Ah. No, er. I lost her. Just haven’t remembered to take off the ring.”

Something in Mr. Kirkland’s expression falls. “No! Er, that’s fine. You have every reason to keep it on. Of course. That’s very…caring of you,” he concludes. “Sorry, now that I’ve made a complete arse of myself, I’ll just go find a table—”

“You haven’t made an arse of yourself,” says Francis, and he’s surprised to find how much he means it. He likes that Mr. Kirkland understands. His mother didn’t; she gently reminded him that if he hoped to bring his life back to normal, he ought not to wear something so heavily reminding. Secretly, he thinks she hopes he’ll manage to attract another wife sooner for lack of a ring. But he can’t go back to the days before Jeanne, back to flirting and flings, all innocent but none meaningful. So the ring stays.

“You’re welcome to share this table with me, if you like,” says Francis. He gestures to the seat across from him.

Mr. Kirkland looks between Francis and the window. After a moment, he sits. “You did manage to find a good view,” he says.

He takes out a novel out from under his arm beside the umbrella, cracks it open, and takes a sip of tea. Francis returns to his typing, but as the minutes pass he realizes that Arthur hasn’t yet turned a page. He slows his typing, wondering why.

Arthur finally summons the nerve. “May I ask how you met?”

“My wife and I?” says Francis. He sits back in his chair.

“Yes,” says Arthur. He’s looking out the window, but Francis meets his gaze in the glass’s reflection.

“It was a setup, actually,” says Francis. “We were two of the only French students at Columbia, and the girlfriend of one of my roommates insisted I meet her. At first I was skeptical—all I knew about her was that she was French, and that didn’t guarantee anything. But I met her for dinner all the same, and she…dazzled me.”

“Oh?”

“She studied biology,” says Francis. “She wanted to heal people. But she had such an intense faith to accompany her studies that it made me want to believe too. And I did, for a time.” He feels like he shouldn’t be revealing something so deep to Mr. Kirkland, but when he pauses, Mr. Kirkland looks at him with such clear curiosity and expectation that he reconsiders. “When she said becoming a doctor was a calling, she meant it beyond our sense—I would swear she felt chosen by God to heal others.”

“I imagine you married in a church,” says Arthur, kindly but with a wry smile.

“Oh, the oldest in her hometown,” says Francis. “We went back to France for our families’ sake, and because we’d graduated. I was satisfied with my bachelor’s in business, but she needed to return to Columbia to continue her medical track, so we only stayed the summer and then moved back to New York together.”

“And your wedding planning business came from there?”

“From France? No. But it was there that I found endless frustration in arranging so many different things just to prove to our families that I loved her. And I thought, these Americans, they’re so busy. Why not spare them some time and go through it again? For them?”

“A clear opportunity.”

“But it’s even more than that, Mr. Kirkland.” Francis has been explaining himself aloofly, but now he looks Mr. Kirkland in the eye. “It’s hard to love your work in business, if you sell something you don’t believe in. But I believe in love.”

Mr. Kirkland’s expression flickers. “Still?”

“Even still.”

“…May I ask?”

“Car accident. She was walking home from class.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

The two look at each other. Francis sees through Mr. Kirkland, allowing himself a moment’s grief, but Mr. Kirkland isn’t done yet. “You still believe in love. But what about God?”

Francis sighs. Mr. Kirkland senses his reluctance and backpedals. “Of course, you have every right not to answer, but I just thought because you’d mentioned your wife was—”

“I don’t know,” says Francis. “I don’t know if I believe in God, but I talk to him. Only to ask questions. I feel like I don’t have a right to ask anything except about Jeanne. But you know,” and here Francis chuckles, “sometimes I feel like I’m making deals with him. I bring new lovers to his churches, and in return…well. I don’t know.”

Mr. Kirkland nods, processing. Francis expects to have cowed Mr. Kirkland enough with his beliefs, half expects him to nod and leave. But instead he only takes another sip of his tea.

“You know,” he says, “I wouldn’t call that a deal. I don’t think that’s what you’re doing. I know it’s not my place to assume”—and here Francis suddenly reminds himself that this is a _client_ he’s speaking to—“but if I could, I’d say you were making an offering.”

“Oh?” says Francis. He’s trying to be nonchalant, but it isn’t working. “To bring her back?”

“Perhaps,” says Mr. Kirkland. “Like I said, it’s not my place. But I know it when I see it, because I used to do something of the same thing.”

Francis tilts his chin up, listening. Maybe he can compensate for his breach in professionalism by trying to turn this talk to Mr. Kirkland’s wedding.

“Mum was always religious,” says Mr. Kirkland. He sets his elbows on the table and hunches over his drink. “And every time I’d come back from school—Cambridge, by the way, an actual proper school,” he says with a teasing grin that Francis is surprised and pleased to see, “every Sunday she’d take me to Mass, or to church when my father decided to go. But if we went to Mass we could light a candle, and the only way she got any of us to do it as kids was to tell us we could pray to God for a wish.”

“So you wished for love.”

“Yes. Every time. I felt horrible about it, like some orphan in Africa was going to drop dead because I didn’t pray for them. But I figured after a while that candle or not, they were probably making their own prayers, and God knew what I really meant to ask for.”

“And now you have it, yes? With Mr. Jones.”

Mr. Kirkland hums. He looks down at his drink. “Alfred loves me, yes. I’m very lucky.”

Francis opens his mouth to comment, to congratulate him and bring him to discussions of his wedding. But the shape of Mr. Kirkland’s shoulders and the fold of his arms stops him. He can’t put his finger on why he redirects himself, but he follows his instinct.

“Luck comes in strange forms,” says Francis instead. “Weddings usually have a way of showing where true luck comes in.”

Mr. Kirkland snorts, leaving brief ripples in his tea. “Is that why there are so many nervous brides out there?”

“Nerves are a symptom of many things. But I suppose worrying about your own luck can be a cause.”

Mr. Kirkland doesn’t respond. He stares down into his tea, now as lost as Francis was when thinking about Jeanne. His green eyes cloud over and crease at the edges with a pain that Francis isn’t familiar with but that he _feels_ filling the space between them. Something in Arthur Kirkland hurts, even after his wish has come true.

“You won’t go through it alone,” says Francis, the best promise he thinks he can make. “I’ll be here for every step of it.”

Mr. Kirkland invisibly shakes himself from his reverie. He looks up and offers a—is that a smirk? The tilt of his lip and the narrowing of his eyes sear themselves into Francis’s memory. Francis attributes his disorientation to emotional whiplash.

“You’d better,” says Mr. Kirkland.

A notification appears on Francis’s laptop and gives a small “blip”.

“Urgent?” asks Mr. Kirkland.

“No, just a reminder of an appointment in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen—” Mr. Kirkland lifts his sleeve to reveal a watch. “Fuck! I’ve got one too, and it’s further away than I’d like it to be.” He snatches his book and umbrella and jams them under his arm, and finishes his tea in one gulp. “So sorry, I have to—”

“No, please,” says Francis, waving him off with a small smile. “Of course I can’t take up the rest of your day, Mr. Kirkland.”

“Please—after a talk like this, I think you’re all but required to call me Arthur.”

“Arthur,” repeats Francis. “No, leave the cup, I’ll return it for you.”

“Thanks so much,” says Mr. Kirkland as he straightens his collar. He flashes Francis another smile, less stirring than his smirk but more genuine. Francis returns it.

Mr. Kirkland—Arthur—leaves the café in a flurry. Francis watches him pass in front of the window and settles down to wrap up the few notes he has.

Moments later, he finds himself staring at the empty seat and cup across from him. Now that he’s not in the moment, now that he’s seen a smile and a smirk and a sad gaze on Arthur Kirkland, he understands what unnerved him enough to keep him from congratulating Arthur on having his wish come true.

Arthur didn’t say he loved Alfred back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, now everyone ignore the fact that they're sharing their deepest thoughts and desires in like their fourth meeting. They're falling in love. Shush.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the commenters and kudos-ers: I'm so glad you guys like where this story is going!! Here's hoping this chapter lives up to expectations.
> 
> The total chapter count has moved up to 5 because I have a better idea of where I want the plot to go.

“Just a moment!”

Arthur’s door is ajar as he calls through it, and Francis takes the liberty of pushing it open. His secretary, Francis has been informed, is gone for the day, leaving only Arthur to receive him for their evening appointment. Francis recommended a diner over text, and much to his surprise, Arthur offered him a ride there and gave him directions to his office.

Arthur’s office resembles what Francis knows of Arthur: well put together, but with a few things left a mess. The drawers of his filing cabinet are well-filed but left open; his floor lacks even a scrap of paper, but his trash bin is filled nearly to the brim with takeout boxes and files he seems to have forgotten to recycle. He clearly has a system to organize the papers on his desk—it’s only that there are a _lot_ of papers.

Francis’s mind flashes back to Jeanne. It’s been doing that more often in the past two weeks, as if his last conversation with Arthur at the café opened a floodgate he’d just managed to close. Jeanne had the same sort of controlled chaos, only with the odd textbook or plastic skeleton tossed in the bunch. Francis’s mother had had to clear her desk after the funeral; Francis couldn’t bear to.

On the bright side, he’s been thinking over Arthur’s suggestion—that he makes offerings to God—and thinking of changing his approach. He usually defaults to churches with his clients, but he could stand to make some connections at newer venues. He owes it to himself as much as anyone.

He only hopes Arthur hasn’t been too put off by their abnormally intimate conversation. He still regrets his breach in professionalism, and he hopes Arthur will forgive him for it.

Arthur is lifting piles upon piles of papers, and finally murmurs an “aha!” and extracts three pages stapled together. He only notices Francis when he sets the pile down.

“Ah, Francis,” he says. Francis raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. He’s allowed to call Arthur by his name, but they had no time to figure out what to call Francis.

“Thought I’d let myself in,” says Francis. “Unless I’m intruding?”

“No, it’s fine—I’m almost done,” says Arthur. He looks down to skim through the document he’s uncovered, finally finding a key term in the middle of the second page. He turns and makes notes on his laptop, brow furrowed.

Francis looks around further. Arthur hung only five things on his wall: his undergraduate and masters of law diplomas, his authorization to practice law in the state of New York, a photo of the day he accepted his current status with his firm, and a smaller photo of him and Alfred Jones. Jones offers the camera his widest smile while Arthur stares at the camera with a calmness Francis hasn’t yet seen in person. They’re sitting at what appears to be a company-sponsored dinner. Odd. Isn’t Jones in business, not law?

“That should do it,” mutters Arthur. He closes the laptop with a decisive snap and stands. “Ready to go?”

“Whenever you are,” says Francis.

Arthur puts on his jacket and follows Francis’s gaze to his photo. “Ah, yeah. That was taken three months after Alfred first asked me out.”

“Where is it?”

“His company’s Christmas dinner. Our firm is their primary legal counsel.”

“You met through work, then?”

“Sort of,” explains Arthur as he wraps his scarf around his neck and gestures to exit. Francis follows Arthur by half a step through the sea of office doors and cubicles. “My first major assignment as an associate was to handle Eagle Industries, and I ended up barking at a man for nearly taking off my foot on his rush to the elevator. Turns out it was him—he was trying not to be late for his meeting with me.” Arthur shakes his head with a slight smile.

“Unconventional, I suppose,” says Francis. He matches Arthur’s smile. “But I always enjoy unconventional meetings.”

“Especially when they lead to unconventional matches, I suppose,” says Arthur. His smile has diminished, but it’s still there. He ushers Francis into an elevator and stands with his briefcase held in front of him with both hands. If his posture hadn’t deteriorated with every step away from the office, Francis would suspect he was preparing to meet the head of the firm.

“Ah, there are no unconventional matches—only unexpected ones,” says Francis. “What is a conventional couple, anyway?”

Arthur looks prepared to answer, but stops himself. The elevator dings, breaking the sudden silence. “This way,” he says quietly.

Francis wonders at the sudden change in atmosphere, but when he holds open the parking garage door for Arthur, he follows his eyes to Francis’s wedding ring. Of course—Arthur meant to ask about Jeanne again, and decided not to.

Does Arthur feel as guilty about their last conversation as Francis does? He can’t be upset about not keeping up professional behavior—he’s the client, after all, and he has the power in their discussions. Maybe he worries he’s overstepped personal boundaries; he wishes he hadn’t asked about Jeanne.

“Jeanne and I were hardly conventional,” Francis says. Arthur’s eyes are on him the moment he speaks, even as he leads the way down the aisle to his car. “If anything, she gave herself eternal grief because she couldn’t cook to save her life.”

Arthur laughs. He sounds as if he’s been taken by surprise, like he doesn’t do it often. Francis likes how his face lightens. “I know that grief,” Arthur says. “I once burnt macaroni and cheese.”

“By leaving it too long?”

“By forgetting the water.”

“I don’t think she was quite that bad,” says Francis with a chuckle. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“But she did lament that she never knew what spices to use, so she’d end up using none of them. She’d also forget how long to leave things cooking, so we’d have pink chicken and limp asparagus in the same meal. So I cooked for both of us.”

Arthur stops beside a dark blue car—small, practical, the front seats empty but the back covered in dry cleaning. He unlocks the doors and gestures for Francis to take the passenger seat. “You cook?”

“It’s part of what made us unconventional.” Without being asked, Francis takes Arthur’s suitcase and sets it at his feet. “She would study all day, and I would cook after finishing my own work. As we ate she’d usually tell me what she was learning about nutrition, and I usually ended up taking her recommendations for the next meal.”

“Sounds like a good time,” says Arthur. He starts the car and pulls out of the garage, but says nothing more. Francis wishes he knew where to go from here. He doesn’t care much to talk about…well, about his current meal situation. He skips more meals and eats at more diners and cafes than he cares to admit.

He hesitates to ask Arthur about Mr. Jones’s eating habits. Based simply on Jones’s venti Frappuccino which he drank at their first meeting, Francis can deduce that neither of them are the healthiest of eaters. And furthermore, he wonders whether discussing Jones in general is the best idea.

 _You’re being ridiculous_ , he tells himself. It should be assumed that if you’ve agreed to marry someone, you love him. Why, then, does Francis think back to Arthur’s slumped shoulders and lost gaze so often? No one who loves his fiancé should look that haunted, not after describing a lifetime of wishing for love.

He decides to test his limits. He can already call Arthur by his first name—what harm is a little more investigation, to see where the leeway stops?

“May I ask—er, when Mr. Jones proposed?”

“Ah. Right. About…oh, three months ago?” says Arthur. He keeps his eyes on the traffic, which is heavy. They’re driving to a diner Francis knows and recommends, one of his many sites for planning wedding matters. “We contacted you only a few weeks after.”

“And how did he do it?” When Arthur glances at him, Francis assumes an innocent expression. “I find engagement stories help me plan weddings.”

“Do tell,” mutters Arthur. “Alright, so we’d been dating for about six months.”

“So soon?”

“It was maybe a bit rushed, yes,” says Arthur, “but what can I say, Alfred throws himself into things when he gets an idea he likes. And he liked the thought of marrying me.”

“So where did he ask?”

“He took me to dinner at Serendipity 3.”

“Ah. Home of the world’s most expensive ice cream sundae.”

“Precisely. He ended up eating it by himself—I couldn’t stomach the thought of, well, stomaching gold leaf. But at the bottom of the crystal goblet was the ring.”

“Ah.” Francis tries to sound appreciative. Arthur sees through him.

“Yes, it was dripping in fudge and melted ice cream. I couldn’t wear it that evening. But the ring itself was lovely,” says Arthur.

Francis’s eyes flash to Arthur’s hands on the steering wheel. Arthur glances too, and blushes. “I, er, don’t like to wear it at work,” he says. “Not quite used to the weight of it.”

“It’s—jarring, I’m sure,” says Francis. He doesn’t mention how, when he first bought his own engagement rings, he’d worn his around the house all day. When Jeanne came home early he’d had to jam his hands under the faucet and pretend to be knuckles-deep in washing a pot. He’d been so ready to wear it, so ready that he’d offered Jeanne hers only three days later.

As if through telepathy, Arthur senses Francis’s doubt and his hands tense on the wheel. Francis watches pedestrians cross the street in front of them. How can Arthur really drive in this traffic every day?

“Music?” Arthur asks abruptly, and without waiting for Francis’s answer he jams a button on his stereo. Francis recognizes the tune that plays and smiles to himself. He chooses to drop the topic—he hasn’t heard this song in ages. His finger taps along on the car door.

Arthur said he likes rock, and Francis supposes the Beatles count.

“ _You say yes, I say no,_ ” he sings under his breath.

“You know this?” Arthur asks.

“It’s pretty standard of the Beatles, isn’t it?” asks Francis. He looks back from the window to find Arthur looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

“Alfred didn’t know it,” Arthur says, half to himself.

“He probably knows other songs,” says Francis. “‘All You Need is Love’, at the very least.”

“Of course that would be your first choice,” says Arthur. Just as he begins to grin, the horn behind them blares. The light has turned green.

Arthur mutters his apologies and speeds into the next block. “Hello, Goodbye” croons on into the ending, which Francis sings quietly. He grins to hear Arthur hum along too.

The track changes as they reach their next light.

“ _Thank you for the days,_  
_Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me._  
 _I'm thinking of the days,_  
 _I won't forget a single day, believe me…”_

The tune is cheery, but Francis doesn’t know the band. The lyrics, however, cut into him as if his body is made of wet paper.

“What—er, what CD is this?” he asks.

“Oh? Just my cheer-up mix,” says Arthur. “This is the Kinks. ‘Days’, you know it?”

“ _I bless the light,_  
_I bless the light that lights on you believe me._  
 _And though you're gone,_  
 _You're with me every single day, believe me.”_

“…No,” says Francis. “But I like it.”

“Glad you do,” says Arthur. If Francis’s eyes grow glassier as he looks out the window again, Arthur has the good grace not to comment.

* * *

“I swear it was a sign,” says Francis.

“Francis, you think _everything_ is a sign,” says Gilbert. He, Francis, and Antonio are at one of their favorite bars, at the booth against the wall that overlooks the pool table and allows them to people-watch as they chat.

“No, this time it really was!” says Francis.

“Francis,” says Antonio with the smile that lives on his face nearly every minute, “I’m as Catholic as she was”—none of them need to confirm who _she_ is—“and I have to tell you, you see signs more than she or I ever did.”

“She saw callings, I see signs. It’s complementary, really,” says Francis.

“And another reason you two were _meant to be_ ,” says Gilbert with a mocking edge to his voice. He receives an elbow in the ribs from Antonio and remembers belatedly to be kinder about Francis’s dead wife. “But look, it was just a playlist.”

“In Arthur’s car,” says Francis. “A playlist made by Arthur.”

“And you think she was speaking to you in your client’s playlist?” Antonio asks. “I could think of better places.”

“Like hiding messages in your husband’s pasta sauce,” says Gilbert, snickering into his beer. Jeanne may be off-limits for Gilbert’s snark, but Lovino isn’t. Antonio elbows him again anyway.

“And what’s she even trying to say?” asks Antonio.

“She wants me to move on.”

Antonio and Gilbert look at one another, and then back at Francis. “Dude,” says Gilbert. “ _We’ve_ been trying to say that.”

“Gently,” adds Antonio. “And we’re very proud of you for going back to work. But maybe the best way to go back to work would be—I don’t know, to _not_ think of Jeanne at every moment.”

“That’s not a very reasonable request,” says Francis. “If it were Lovino—”

“Oh god, here we go,” says Gilbert. He stretches his arms across the table as if trying to reach Francis and physically stop him. “Let me just stop you guys right there, because I can’t hear it anymore. Antonio,” he says, pointing, “I thought you were supposed to be the supporting one. Francis,” he says, turning to him, “alright, we hear you. Jeanne spoke to you. Great. Topic over.”

“Topic not over,” says Francis.

“Well say the rest before I fall asleep right here.”

“I…I think Arthur doesn’t love his fiancé.”

Antonio’s “Huh?” is delivered at the same time as Gilbert’s “So?”

“ _So_ ,” says Francis pointedly to Gilbert, “how can I plan a wedding for two people who don’t love each other?”

“Does the fiancé love Arthur?” asks Antonio.

“Arthur says so,” says Francis.

“Wait, you _asked?_ ” says Gilbert. “Isn’t that, like, against your professional code or something?”

“He volunteered it,” says Francis. He omits that Arthur only volunteered it after Francis asked him. He didn’t _have_ to respond. “But even if it’s not true, how can I plan a wedding like that?”

“What about that Dutch guy who married that Ukrainian girl?” asks Gilbert. “You didn’t think that was a marriage of convenience or something?”

“Anyone who has a reception that large—”

“I have a question,” interrupts Antonio. “Why did you say, ‘Jeanne wants me to move on’, and then the next thing you wanted to talk about was how your latest client doesn’t love his groom?”

Francis and Gilbert both blink. “Well…you wanted me to go back to work, didn’t you?” asks Francis, but he feels like he’s giving the wrong answer. “This is a work topic.”

“Yeah,” says Gilbert, now turning to Francis with an appraising eye. “But you usually focus a lot less on your clients and a _lot_ more on what your clients want. But not this time. Now all we hear about is Arthur.”

“What? No, I—”

“‘Arthur drinks black tea in our morning meetings,’” quotes Antonio, “‘but when we meet for dinner he takes oolong.’”

“‘He would fit right in at Woodstock,’” Gilbert adds, grinning. “‘He probably has a guitar somewhere, I’m sure of it.’”

“So I don’t get out much,” Francis mutters.

“Don’t you have another client?” asks Antonio. “I don’t even remember their names.”

“He didn’t _tell_ us their names,” says Gilbert.

“So what are you trying to say?” asks Francis. “That I…?” But the conclusion doesn’t reach him.

Antonio and Gilbert look at each other. Between them they seem to conclude that Gilbert will explain it too bluntly, because Antonio is the one to turn to Francis and speak. “Maybe you like him.”

“…What? So soon after…?”

“Timing has nothing to do with it,” says Antonio, smiling wider. “If he’s meant to be yours, it doesn’t matter when he appears. Just like how Gilbert found his current boyfriend after—”

“Oh god, I almost forgot Tonio is as much of a romantic as you are.” Gilbert rubs his eyes as he addresses Francis. “But look. This might not be such a bad thing for you—you just gotta be careful.”

“How so?” asks Francis. He means the first part, and Gilbert catches his intention.

“You’re always a fan of love, right? S’why you got into the wedding business. Maybe all you need is a crush to get yourself going again.”

“A crush?” Francis doesn’t blush—he’s nowhere near that new to romance—but he feels a stirring in his stomach that he thought died with Jeanne. It’s heavier, creakier than he remembers, but alive.

“A crush,” Gilbert confirms. “Just…like, put it in your work or whatever. Whether he’s in love with his fiancé or not, he’s taken. And maybe you can go out and find someone kind of like him.” Gilbert grins. “Maybe you’ve already had a wife and now it’s time for a boyfriend.”

“Does he know you’re bisexual?” asks Antonio. “If he does, maybe he’ll stop flirting so much.”

“He’s not—”

“He has to be,” says Gilbert. “Or else why’s he asking you to meet him at work?”

“He said he wanted to discuss along the way.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

Francis thinks back to their conversation. Work, meeting Jones, cooking, Jeanne… “Then maybe he wants tips. He asks about Jeanne a lot.”

“Maybe he wants to know what type of person you like,” Antonio volunteers.

“I really don’t think that’s it,” says Francis. “If anything, I think he wants to know…” _How to have that relationship with Alfred Jones_ , he finishes in his mind. The words catch in his throat, and he doesn’t quite know why.

Gilbert smirks and leans back in his seat. “Francis, it’s not such a bad thing. And if you need a random song to give yourself permission to start moving on from Jeanne, I can’t complain.” His countenance turns serious. “Just…don’t let anyone get hurt. You included. And _definitely_ try not to ruin your business. Just let yourself like him, and give him the best damn wedding he ever wanted.”

“And you think that will help me,” says Francis.

Gilbert looks at Antonio. Francis rather wishes they would stop doing this, discussing how delicate they need to be with him, but deep down he knows they’re some of the best friends he has on this continent.

“Well,” says Antonio finally, “this case is the only thing that’s made you smile since the funeral.”

* * *

Francis plants himself in his window-side seat at Antonio’s café. Antonio himself is out, but Francis wouldn’t be surprised if he’s instructed Lovino to keep an eye on him.

Francis _has_ to spend today picking up some new clients. He only has two cases, barely enough to live on, but even despite his low workload he’s spent the past three days on various calls about flowers. Arthur has an oddly specific opinion on what flowers he wants, and half of them won’t be in season by the date he and Mr. Jones have set.

Francis would be lying if he said he wasn’t procrastinating on finding more clients. He only sees Arthur about once every two weeks—largely because Arthur claims emails will go straight to his junk mail—and still he wants to keep himself available.

 _For him_ , a small voice whispers. _For Arthur._

He tries to squash the voice—which sounds suspiciously like Antonio, the more he thinks about it—but he can’t help but turn the idea of a crush over and over in his mind. A crush—an infatuation, an illogical urge that chooses his object of affection with criteria completely invisible to Francis.

Alright, not invisible. He likes Arthur’s smile. He likes when he laughs. He likes when he talks, and when he listens. But he likes that of anyone; it’s very reasonable to like those things.

 _The way he taps his steering wheel to his music_ , the voice whispers again, _the way his smile tilts to one side when he thinks of his English family sitting at his reception. The way he wistfully touches his favorite photos of the venues you show him. The way he drinks his tea intentionally, with two hands holding the cup only by the fingertips._

_His eyes._

Francis shakes himself. Arthur is intriguing and fun and yes, handsome, but he is a _client_. Francis may believe in love, but he really ought to invest more in his love for his work.

He logs back into his advertising accounts and sets about updating some of his banner ads. It’s a start, and maybe it will remind him of how much he likes designing.

He’s settled into his task and done half an hour’s work when the door opens.

Arthur throws himself into the chair across from Francis.

Francis looks up and blinks. Arthur’s hair looks as if it hasn’t been left alone, as if hands have torn through it many times, and his cheeks are pink. Francis can’t identify the emotion in Arthur’s eyes—anger? embarrassment? shame?—but he looks positively feral.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to barge in,” says Arthur. He clearly does mean to, but Francis is too surprised to comment. “I just wanted to get away from the firm for a while. Took the day sick.”

“Oh?” asks Francis.

“Alfred surprised me at the office.”

“…Oh?”

“D’you know how hard it is to make partner?” asks Arthur abruptly. His gaze jolts up to meet Francis’s as if he’s about to test him, as if Francis is already failing him. “Not to be an associate, like I am, but a full partner.”

Francis shakes his head.

“It bloody well sucks,” says Arthur. “You portion out every minute of your day—every _minute_ , you have to log it—and prove you’re productive, prove you’re trustworthy, good with numbers and sheets, all of it. You suck up. You schmooze. And ultimately what you’re building, and mine’s taken me six _bloody_ years to build, is your reputation.

“And then some—some _idiot_ decides to storm your office, the one you worked so hard for, the one that assures you you might actually be going somewhere with the firm, and he calls you pet names and goes—goes kissing you in front of everyone!”

“Oi!” From the counter at the other side of the café, Lovino barks at them. “Keep it down!” He glares at Arthur, then turns his gaze to Francis as if Francis has any control over the circumstance.

“Oi, piss off!” Arthur calls back, and only through a pleading look from Francis does Lovino not begin a shouting match right there. Arthur throws both his elbows on the table and knots his hands in his sandy hair. “I’m bloody _humiliated_.”

Francis stares at Arthur, who only breathes heavily. He pushes his laptop aside. “You wish he wouldn’t have come?”

“Not…I mean, he can come. Fine. I like surprises, and I suppose in his own way he was being romantic. But he just…doesn’t he listen, when I tell him how much I need to be taken seriously? Of all people, he ought to know how much you need to keep a reputation in our lines of work. I’m already bloody young enough as it is, I’m competing with associates twice my age, and I don’t need someone swooping in with an overly loud voice and nicknames that’ll echo around the office for ages, when I _have to work_ —and oh god, if the board saw me wasting time, they’d—”

“They’d what?”

“I mean…they wouldn’t fire me. But I’m already on rather thin ice. Messed up a deal,” he explains, “lost my client a few thousand. Not a lot, and Alfred covered for me, thank god. But they have their suspicions. And god knows if they can actually pin something on me, even if it’s just immaturity or lack of dedication, I’ll never make partner.”

“So…” Francis is trying to find a place to put this new information about Arthur and Mr. Jones. “Wouldn’t your marriage then be a…conflict of interest? If your firm serves his company?”

“On the contrary. Once I make partner, I won’t even be working for Alfred’s firm anymore—I’ll have larger cases. And connections, which are perhaps even more valuable.”

“Connections thanks to your husband?”

“Thanks to the trustworthiness of the firm, which largely came from my and Alfred’s work.” Arthur’s embarrassment and anger begin to fade, and he straightens into a proper lawyer. “I may not personally handle Eagle Industry’s affairs, but my underlings will. There’ll be an unspoken expectation of cooperation between our two firms—maybe one that will even lead to a permanent relationship. If they can look past my one fuck-up, Alfred and I could serve them. Together.”

“I still don’t fully understand why you need to marry to do it.”

“Well. That’s not why we’re marrying. There’s love, of course. And…well, there’s another unspoken expectation within our firms. In the past, oh, forty years, no bachelors have ever been promoted.”

“Oh?”

“They’re all family men. Career men, sure, firm devotees and so on, but when the board that evaluates you for partnership only takes on people who have achieved a certain stage in life, nobody wants to take any chances by deviating. Me included.”

“And here I thought you were going to say you were marrying Mr. Jones for his citizenship.”

Arthur barks a laugh. He’s still cooling down, but it’s a start. “Not quite. I do believe I’m painting a worse picture than it really is,” he says. “Alfred does love me, and yes, there’s partnership for me to think of, and promotions for Alfred too. But we’ll help each other, yeah? We understand each other’s worlds. I doubt anyone else would take me with the life I lead, anyway.”

Francis frowns so sharply that Arthur’s attention is drawn from his own thoughts. He looks back at Francis with a lightly puzzled expression.

“I don’t believe that,” says Francis.

“What, that we understand each other?”

“No, that no one else would take you.”

Arthur’s puzzled expression turns bitter. “Well you don’t see people exactly lining out the door, do you?” says Arthur. “It’s always been that way. Why d’you think I made the wishes I did?”

Francis breathes deeply. He doesn’t know why he finds himself so offended by Arthur’s self-deprecation. There’s a lot concerning Arthur that he doesn’t know, he’s realizing. “I don’t mean to judge,” he says. “I’m only confused. You sound almost…ashamed to be associated with…” He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to go down that route. “You say Alfred understands your life, and then you say he’s ruined your reputation. It doesn’t sound like he understands.”

Arthur’s anger sobers. “Maybe he doesn’t,” says Arthur. “Not that one aspect, anyway. But I’ll make him understand.” His lips twist into a wry smile. “We’ll have the rest of our lives, after all.”

“And you think he’s the best you’ll get,” says Francis.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “A bit judgmental for a wedding planner, isn’t that?”

The realization drenches Francis like a cold shower. He bows his head, chagrined. “I’m sorry. You’re right, that’s very rude of me.”

“Hey,” says Arthur. His tone is so casual it makes Francis look up. “I’m the one who came here, aren’t I?”

“That’s true,” says Francis. “I thought you just wanted to leave work.”

“Y’know, I came here a few times before, actually. Seems I only ever want to stay when you’re here.”

Francis’s stomach nearly turns inside out.

“I hope you don’t mind it,” says Arthur. “It’s just, you listen well enough. You’re probably the best friend I have in this city, and I didn’t realize until I was on my way here just now.” He laughs ruefully. “I hope you don’t mind. I seem to have hired you to be my listening ear more than anything.”

Francis needs to take a second to calm his racing heart. At first he swore Gilbert was right— _he’s flirting_ , says the voice, _he’s always been flirting and you’re a widow, but you don’t care do you, you don’t care because he’s flirting and you_ like _it_ —but as Arthur continues he finds the will to squelch the tiny voice once more. Francis doesn’t need a crush, and nor does Arthur. Arthur needs a friend.

Francis can do that much.

“I don’t mind at all,” he says. “I really don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if Arthur's discussion of his and Alfred's work doesn't make sense. I'm reading a book with a character who's going through similar stuff to Arthur (minus the whole marriage thing), and but I think the model only extends so far.
> 
> Fair warning: this will probably be my last post until mid to late next week. I have to write 20 pages for my honors thesis this weekend, so...yeah, that'll take up a lot of my time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this write-as-I-go thing isn't working so well for me. In my defense: after I wrote my 20 pages of thesis, I had...well, all of my other finals.
> 
> Fun fact: I told myself I couldn't reblog anything on tumblr until I wrote more of this story. But that doesn't work at all, because I figured out that I can save drafts of posts instead of reblogging immediately. So those of you who follow me on tumblr are about to be swarmed, but hey, there's a chapter. New anti-procrastination technique pending.
> 
> This chapter heavily features bookstores because I'm working in a bookstore this winter break. -finger guns-

Francis might explode.

Arthur is only four months away from his wedding, and they’ve been planning since three months ago. They’re deep into January’s winter and keeping cozy in Amante Café, and Arthur is holding his tea as if it were the last warmth on the planet, and his lips are chapped and dry and _should not tease Francis this way_.

Arthur can’t stand having even a drop of tea on his cup, so after every sip he presses his bottom lip on the part of the mug he just sipped from. It’s subtle, and Francis wonders if Arthur is even aware he’s doing it. But whether he’s aware or not, he’s _doing_ it, and Francis hasn’t stopped watching since he noticed it the last time they met.

“It’ll be a May wedding,” says Arthur. _Sip. Lip_. “You don’t mean to tell me peonies will be out of season even then?”

“Yes,” says Francis absently. “I mean—no, peonies will be in season, but white roses are the ones that will be scarce.”

“Hm,” says Arthur. “Pity. Any other roses in bloom?”

“I could probably find you white ones,” says Francis. “It’s my job, after all.”

“Even so, I’d hate to be a bother.”

 _Sip._ Francis tenses. _Lip._

“It’s my job,” he repeats with a strained smile.

He forgets that Arthur’s smile tilts whenever he remembers Francis is his wedding planner as well as his listening ear. The smirk— _oh god, does he taste like tea?_ —tantalizes him.

 _It’s a crush_ , Francis reminds himself. _It’s a crush, and you’re going to put it into your work. You’re not going to do anything other than look._

“I’ll call a few florists and get back to you,” he says. He puts more effort into making his smile genuine. “I do have some connections in the rose department, after all. Now, we should discuss invitations.”

“Ah, that one I’ll need to leave to Alfred,” says Arthur. “He has considerably more people to invite than I do, since he’s from here and everything, and he asked I leave that part to him.”

“So I’ll wait for you to pass on his requests, then?”

“Actually, I’ll be wrapped up in a rather busy case this upcoming week. Would you mind terribly meeting with him instead of me?”

Something in Francis’s chest grows heavy. Likely his heart, though he doesn’t want to think about it too much.

“I know,” says Arthur with only the vaguest of teasing. “I already abandoned you once for Christmas, but it simply has to be done. Already I’ve done as much advance work as I can, but the case is just ramping up, and with partner evaluations at the end of the year…”

“Please, there’s no need to justify yourself,” says Francis. Almost despite himself, he adds with a small smile, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ll miss our meetings.”

Arthur looks at him with a surprising amount of consideration. He looks at this table. Francis has begged Antonio to keep the café open just an hour later this winter, just to make sure he and Arthur can meet after Arthur finishes his day at the office. He’s moved his work location for the Oxenstierna-Vainamoinen case to another table in the back, but if Arthur comes here for a break, he moves immediately to their table by the window.

Arthur finally hums. “Perhaps a little,” he says nonchalantly. “No more than I’ll miss anything else in the real world, of course.”

_Sip. Lip._

Damn it.

* * *

“Dude! So glad you could make it.”

Francis keeps his hands in his pockets and smiles politely, which seems to be the best move because Alfred Jones’s idea of a greeting is to clap Francis on the shoulder.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Jones,” says Francis. Bitterly he thinks of how much more of a pleasure it would be to see Arthur, but maybe—as Antonio has helpfully pointed out a few nights ago—this meeting is exactly what he needs. Francis can have a crush, but meeting with Jones helps him remember that he can’t turn that crush into anything else.

“God, it’s so nice to stop with the whole business formality thing,” says Jones, leading them mindlessly out of the lobby of Eagle Enterprises and into the street. “I mean, I totally love my job, but it gets a bit tough to do all the smalltalk, y’know? I just wanna get right down to business and start figuring out how to make my clients’ day more awesome!”

“What an enterprising mindset,” says Francis. He’s not sure what that means for him, and for Jones as his client. Fortunately, Jones seems to mentally separate smalltalk from mindless chatter, and is happy to provide the second.

“And then Arty’s the best—no, wait, don’t tell him I called him Arty, he hates that—he’s the best at smalltalk, so he gets to do all the schmoozing, and then BAM, I come in with the best ideas! And he does all the finance stuff, so I guess it’ll kind of suck when he makes partner, but—”

“You, er,” Francis stutters, “don’t want him to make partner?"

Jones pauses, and then laughs loudly. “Nah, don’t get me wrong! I want him to meet his lawyer dreams and the whole thing. I just—y’know, it might suck a little to not see him all day at work.”

“But you’ll see him when you come home, of course.”

“Of course! And I mean, neither of us can cook much, so it’ll be just like our days back at the office, getting takeout and talking about work and all that great stuff.”

Jones paints a pretty picture, but Francis imagines it better as taking place in Arthur’s messy-but-not office at his law firm. “I imagine he’ll have plenty to tell you about his new cases,” says Francis pacifically. He wants to ask what else the two of them talk about, but he doesn’t know how to phrase it.

“Hm? Yeah, I guess.”

“So may I ask where you’re taking us?” Francis belatedly realizes that Jones, despite Francis’s earlier impression that he doesn’t know what he wants for his wedding, is leading the way. “I have some very good stationery shops I could recommend—”

“Oh, no, don’t worry, I know a really good place!”

“Ah.” Jones doesn’t seem the sort for stationery, but Francis is willing to go along with it. “Do you know how much longer our walk might take?”

“Why, getting cold?” Jones asks teasingly. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there. I go here on breaks a lot.”

“Alright, but I should mention that I also wanted your opinion on the reception music—”

“Ta-da!” says Jones, and he ducks into a shop before Francis can finish his request.

Francis opens the door—Jones let it close in his haste—and finds himself surrounded in the warmth of a small bookstore. It seems to offer a mixture of old and new titles, from the top bestsellers in hardcover to the pile of creased-spine mass markets on the counter. To Francis’s right, a tiny café with no more than three tables takes up a spare room which might have been a readers’ corner in another life.

“Ah, Alfred,” says the bookseller from behind the counter to the left. He’s tall, his head almost reaching the top of the bookshelves behind him, and he wears a worn light pink scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. When he meets Jones’s eyes, his cheeks turn the color of his scarf.

“Ivan!” Jones sounds surprised, but his ready smile can’t fool Francis. “Good to see you, my man!”

“As always,” says the bookseller—Ivan, Francis supposes. He looks ready to say more, but spies Francis standing behind Jones and quiets himself.

“Oh, right,” says Jones. He turns back to Francis and holds out both his hands in a sort of “ta-da” gesture. “This is Francis, my wedding planner.”

Ivan freezes. He turns to Jones with his small smile still in place but his eyes wider. “…Wedding?”

“Yeah,” says Jones. If he notices the way Ivan’s shoulders hitch up, he doesn’t mention it. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“…Excuse me,” says Ivan. He drops the book he was holding, not even appearing to care that the book topples from the edge of the table to the floor, and steps out from behind the counter and towards the café.

“Hey—wait a sec,” says Jones. His smile drops for the first time since Francis has met him. Jones dashes past Francis and to the adjacent café, where Ivan has let himself behind the register and is playing with the steamer on the espresso machine. He prepares a cup of milk from a jug retrieved from under the counter.

“Okay, so I forgot to mention—”

 _PSHHHHHHHT_ Ivan runs the steamer.

“I know we’ve been having fun—”

_PSHHHHHHHT_

“Look, you don’t even know how to make a—”

_PSHHHHHHHT_

“Wouldn’t friends even hear each other _out?”_ demands Jones.

“ _Friends_ do,” says Ivan, swiveling around and leaning towards Jones, bracing himself against the counter. The more he speaks, the more pronounced his accent—something Slavic, Francis guesses—becomes. “But men who come into this shop every day this year and do not buy things except coffee and smile so widely at me even after hearing that I am _gay_ —men who say they are gay _too_ and who continue to come and to smile as they hide that they are engaged—they do not deserve hearing.”

Francis watches this exchange owlishly from the counter Ivan just abandoned. As Jones nearly talks his jaw off with as many explanations and placations as he can voice—“I thought you had a boyfriend” “I’m marrying a guy, I thought you’d be cool with that” “You know about Arthur, he’s in all my work stories” “Why are you so _upset_ about this?”—and as Ivan stands in cold silence, Francis understands that this is a conversation he really should not be listening to. He propels himself further into the bookshop and out of view of the café’s entrance, and finds himself standing near the stationery. This is probably the section where Jones wanted to take him. It’s a half-full wall of a pithy selection of cards in all manner of colors, and there aren’t nearly enough for how large Jones’s wedding is going to be.

But, listening to Jones run out of breath and wait for Ivan to finally speak again, the tiniest part of Francis wonders whether there will still be a wedding.

“I thought you were flirting,” says Ivan quietly. Almost mournfully. “I thought you came here because you liked me.”

“I _do_ like you,” says Jones.

“And of all the talks we had—Arthur was your fiancé?”

“Only like…well, no, it doesn’t matter when.”

“Tell me.”

“Six months ago.”

“Then you have let me be a fool for six months.”

“What—Ivan, no, that’s not—”

“And did you lie about the books I lent you?”

“…I mean…”

“And what about the coffee?”

“The coffee was good! And I didn’t _read_ the books, but I kind of skimmed them—”

“Do you even read, Alfred?” Francis imagines Ivan as rubbing his eyes. Guiltily, he then figures he shouldn’t be imagining this or listening at all. But he doesn’t have Jones’s phone number, having done all his coordinating through Arthur so far, and he can’t call later and ask for an all-clear or a rescheduling.

“I do read!” says Jones. “When you recommend it, I try.”

“And does Arthur recommend things too?”

“I…uh, actually I hide the books from him. Read ‘em at work sometimes.”

Ivan pauses. “You hide them.”

“…I didn’t want him to ask. Didn’t want anyone to ask, really. But I’m not ashamed!” he adds. “Definitely not of you. Kinda of me, though. ‘Cause…well, I wanted you to think I was smart. But I only wanted _you_ to think that—not anyone else at work, not even Arthur. And it’s really…complicated?”

“That is an understatement,” says Ivan. A beat. “Your wedding planner has disappeared.”

Francis’s heart leaps into his throat. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to call out or to have left already, so when Jones leans out into the bookstore portion of the shop, he pretends to immerse himself in the cards he’s found. He looks up in false surprise at Jones’s apprehensive expression.

“Ah, Mr. Jones!” he says. “I was just—”

“Yeah,” says Jones, obviously eager to agree. “Totally. Whadaya think?”

“Lovely,” says Francis, “but perhaps the colors could be a little more muted.”

“Yeah, fine, totally,” he says. “So, uh, about those places you said you knew?”

“Yes,” says Francis. He smiles awkwardly. “Well, now that I…know,” he says, gesturing to the cards and also, inadvertently, to the café on the other side of the wall, “I can certainly do the rest myself. Since you’ve shown me what you’re looking for.”

“I mean, I’m not exactly sure that’s what I want,” says Jones. “I just saw them and I liked them. But, yeah, do what you gotta do, okay? We can reschedule later, just call my secretary. Or she has your number. Yeah, I’ll call you.”

Francis nods and walks past the entry to the café, trying very hard not to look at Ivan, who appears to still be behind the counter. He issues a quiet goodbye and closes the door behind him.

He stands in the doorway for a second, and then walks in the direction of the closest stationery shop he can think of.

He doesn’t even want to _think_ of whether Jones was actually talking about the cards.

* * *

Arthur ends up busy for three weeks instead of one. Jones doesn’t call to reschedule, and Francis picks himself up two new clients while avoiding the thoughts spinning around in his head.

Francis is certain from what little he knows of Alfred Jones that Jones wouldn’t knowingly cheat on Arthur. But, from what little he knows of Alfred Jones, Jones would certainly be the sort to fall in love without even knowing he has. He could have been committing adultery of the heart for months.

At least, that’s what the most wicked part of Francis tells him. The better part of him assures him that if Arthur is so certain that Jones is in love with him, then it must be true. But then, Jones talks only of their work together. Neither he nor Arthur mention a date that doesn’t center around a movie or an excursion based on one of Jones’s whims, and Jones sounds like he actively hides a growing bookish part of him from Arthur.

Francis and Arthur once spent a whole afternoon discussing their favorite novels (Arthur loves all things English, but holds a soft spot for Camus and e.e. cummings). If Jones were getting into books, wouldn’t Arthur be the first person he would turn to?

This piece is the sole thing keeping Francis from chalking up Jones’s and Ivan’s relationship to friendship. Jones doesn’t even tell his own fiancé that he’s trying to read more. Jones wants to grow a part of himself, but not with Arthur. With Arthur he seems to have a sort of nostalgic symbiosis, one built from shared work experiences. But he appears to trust Arthur more with a spreadsheet or a meeting than with a casual discussion on a book. He seems to love Arthur best on the clock.

That’s not love—that’s dependency.

For the first time in a long while, Francis thinks of Jeanne. Throughout these past months, between meeting and obtaining clients and spending evenings with Gilbert and Antonio and letting his thoughts orbit around the Kirkland-Jones situation, Francis has found only his nights hard to live with. He comes home to the empty air, and sometimes he speaks to it for lack of another audience.

He thinks of Jeanne guiltily. These days, he hasn’t imagined himself as speaking to her. He’s been speaking to Arthur.

He wonders what Jeanne would say to him, if she were here in this chain bookstore with him, standing beside the leather chair he chose near the fiction section. He thinks he can guess. She would laugh and call herself as out of her league as Francis is on this matter. Then she would ask after Arthur.

Oh, who is Francis kidding? He’s the one thinking of him, not Jeanne.

He shakes his head and concentrates himself on his work. He’s due for a meal soon, but he stationed himself and his laptop in the bookstore so that he doesn’t have the excuse of eating a meal to let himself think. Still he ends up half-focused on his work, looking up at the shelves of the fiction section and wondering which books Ivan has recommended, wondering which ones Arthur would, wondering if there’s an overlap, wondering whose choice Jones would take first—

“Pardon,” says a familiar voice. A thin figure passes Francis’s legs and stands at the shelf beside him.

“Arthur?” Francis croaks.

Arthur turns slowly. He looks worse for wear with baggy eyes and a rumpled suit jacket, probably only haphazardly put on. But his green eyes lighten when he sees Francis blinking up at him from the chair.

“Francis,” he says. “You surely have been following me.”

“No, just a stroke of luck, I assure you,” says Francis, standing and leaving his laptop on the chair so he can face Arthur properly. “But how have you been? Your text last week said so little.”

“Ah, I had nothing but case details left to give,” says Arthur with a weary smile. “Been a bit low on sleep anyway, so I doubt it would even be coherent. But the case is wrapping up, thank god, and I imagine you and I have a lot of catch-up work. Would you mind it waiting?” he asks as one finger tilts a book from the shelf so he can pull it out. “I do need an evening or two to recover, and I can think of no better way to do it.”

“ _The Hobbit_?” Francis says, reading the title as Arthur pulls it out and tucks it under his arm.

“I couldn’t take anything dense right now,” says Arthur. “Too much of it at work, you understand.”

“Maybe…” Oh god, Francis is going to hate himself for this comment. But possibly, the better half of him prays, Arthur actually knows something about Jones’s new reading interest. Possibly they can bond over it, if Francis can plant the seed. “Maybe it’s something Mr. Jones might borrow from you later.”

“Oh, no, Alfred isn’t much into reading,” says Arthur with a roll of his eyes. “Says it gives him a headache. I tell him to get better glasses, but what can you do? No, but I might pick up the movie,” he says thoughtfully. “He’s been lost in his own mind the few times I’ve seen him, so maybe a movie night’s just what we need. Oh, and how did invitations go with him?”

Francis’s mouth goes dry. “Ah…”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. Francis becomes aware of how marred with fatigue his face has become. “I’ll bet he chose some awful ones,” he says.

“His taste is very…different from what I expected,” says Francis. “But I did damage control.” He wishes he could claim that much beyond choosing some creamy white cardstock and a lilting font.

“Good,” says Arthur. He smiles softly, whether for Francis or because of Jones Francis doesn’t know. “Thanks for that. Knew I could count on you.”

“Anytime,” says Francis. He wants his sinking heart to fall through his feet and into hell where it belongs.

Arthur yawns and covers his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You should go home,” says Francis. “Don’t let me keep you, please.”

“You aren’t keeping me,” says Arthur. “It’s nice to talk to someone in the real world for once. Someone away from all of my messes at work. Not even Alfred is entirely safe on that front.” He chuckles dryly. “But maybe I ought to go visit with him, see how he’s been.”

He offers his hand for Francis to shake. Usually he waves, but usually there’s a table separating them. Francis looks at the offered hand and slowly, belatedly takes it.

Arthur offers a quick pump, but their hands linger when Francis doesn’t let go first.

“Good night,” says Arthur, smiling tiredly as he passes him and makes for the registers. Francis nods back and sits down in his chair. He stares at his laptop screen without reading what he’s just typed.

He doesn’t know how Arthur will react if he learns about Ivan. He doesn’t even know whether Arthur finding out or never knowing would be worse.

All he knows is that, in a bout of cruel irony that reminds him of Arthur’s warm hand on his, the Rolling Stones begin playing on the overhead.

_Oh, a storm is threat'ning_   
_My very life today_   
_If I don't get some shelter_   
_Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I have no good excuse for waiting as long as I did to update. Okay, one good excuse: my family is moving house and roped me into sorting through pretty much my entire childhood worth of stuff over the past two weeks. On the bright side, this chapter is like 7K words, so yay!
> 
> Now featuring more song lyrics and the Annoying Voice because apparently these are now things I do. (Seriously though, somebody tell me if this is getting too songficy - I kind of set up music in the first chapter as a theme, but now I might be relying on it too much.)

Francis stands at the sink and rinses his dishes. One plate, one fork, one knife, one cup.

The hum of the fridge and the spray of the sink fill the room. Outside his window, he hears distant sirens and the screech of tires. Behind him, he’s left the living room light on.

_You should tell him._

Francis lifts the scrubber.

_He could break the engagement._

Francis scrubs.

_He could be yours._

Francis misses his target and hits his knuckles on the bottom of the sink.

 _Lui dire ne garantit rien,_ he tells himself. Telling him guarantees nothing. He dries his hands, checking for scrapes, and lifts his head. Now only the hum of the fridge stands between him and his own breathing.

He opens the cabinet nearest the wall and brings out his old speaker. He connects his phone to it and opens a French playlist.

Immediately Charles Trenet’s deep voice fills the kitchen. Francis skips the track. Anything before 1990 he can’t stand to listen to. Even in his native language, even if Arthur has never heard of it. Francis will find something in the recording that brings him back to Arthur.

He finally queues some Coeur de Pirate and Zaz. There. Light, sweet, pleasant.

He continues doing the dishes. He thought it would hurt, playing music just like he did when Jeanne was still with him. Instead the melody pricks through his skin and fills him with a sort of domestic peace. For the longest time, he hasn’t felt like he’s been home. But now, with Zaz crooning “Nous debout”, he realizes he’s returned.

Just as he’s turning to pick up the pan he used to cook dinner, the track changes.

“ _Francis, tu as tant de choses à dire…_ ”

He’s not ready for another song that might be from Jeanne, and especially not one that repeats his own name. Not even bothering to dry his hands, he fumbles with his phone and switches tracks.

“ _Tu est plus facile à faire qu’à comprendre…_ ”

He stands there, stock still. Now Jeanne isn’t the one sending songs. He is—to Arthur. This song discusses leaving a lover after being unable to understand or obtain him. The chorus: “I tried to fly far from you.”

The hominess Francis felt has evaporated. He’s left with the same frustration and longing he struggles with between clients, between commutes and books and everything else he tries to keep himself from contacting Arthur and scheduling another appointment in the hopes that his tongue will defy him and he’ll spill everything and he’ll ruin the romance that Arthur thinks he has, has chosen to invest in, will be devastated to lose.

The song ends. Francis rips his phone from the speaker and stalks out of the kitchen in search of his jacket.

He leaves the pan lying in the sink.

* * *

“Francis?”

Gilbert opens the door wider, but not enough to let Francis inside. Francis stands before him, his hands jammed in his coat pockets. He wants a cigarette or a bottle of wine or some depressant to stop the ache, but he knows that ultimately they treat only the symptoms of loneliness, not the disease.

“May I come in?” asks Francis.

“Er…I’m kind of in the middle of something,” says Gilbert. “Maybe later tonight? You could go to Tonio’s house and I’d meet you there.”

“Antonio spends Thursdays painting with Lovino,” says Francis. “Please, Gilbert. I can help you with what you're doing if you want.”

Gilbert runs a hand through his hair and casts a glance over Francis again. Francis must look half as miserable as he feels, because Gilbert finishes his examination and exhales long and loudly.

“You owe me so big for this.”

He leads Francis into the tiny hallway and leaves Francis to take off his coat while he steps into the living room. “So, Birdie, I—uh, one of my friends came over. Mind if he keeps us company for a bit?”

A pause. Then, “Sure, not a problem,” says a quiet voice. Definitely male. “I’d love to meet one of your friends. Who is it? Antonio?”

“Francis.”

With his coat and shoes already off, Francis quietly puts two and two together. Gilbert “in the middle of something” plus the boyfriend he’d mentioned before Christmas—

Francis steps into the living room. At least this boyfriend matches the same description Francis heard two months ago: blond curling hair, deep blue eyes, pale complexion. Gilbert described him as adorable, so Francis imagines someone petite, but when the boyfriend stands to offer Francis his hand to shake, he has several inches on both Gilbert and Francis and the build of someone who plays a contact sport. His hands are callused, and when Francis finally returns to his face, he quickly masks a concerned frown with a smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. His voice is as soft as when he addressed Gilbert. “I’m Matthew Williams.”

“My boyfriend,” Gilbert juts in, part helpfully and part with a tinge of bitterness.

“Francis Bonnefoy,” says Francis. He turns to Gilbert. “I’m sorry. I would have left if you’d told me this was a date.”

“Fran, the way you look, you’re not going anywhere,” says Gilbert. He passes the two of them and retreats into his kitchen, likely to retrieve some German beer that Francis will have to gulp down.

“He does have a point,” says Matthew, even quieter this time as if he’s embarrassed that he’s let the thought escape him. He gestures for Francis to sit. “Are you alright?”

Francis sits in the chair beside the couch where Matthew has perched. He’s about to lie, his own form of politeness, but he’s caught by how intently and openly Matthew is looking at him. He looks as if he wants to hear the answer.

“I’m a widower,” says Francis. “I just get lonely on certain nights.”

Matthew hisses through his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s not your fault."

“I remember my house being as quiet as a tomb after my dad took my brother in the divorce,” says Matthew. “My mom and I both liked to read, but I couldn’t read in the house if I didn’t hear my brother playing video games in the next room.”

“That sounds awful,” says Francis, and he means it. When he comes back to his flat, he tries so hard not to cling to the sound of the neighbors or his appliances to ground him.

“It’s not so bad now,” says Matthew with a small but easy smile. “It certainly got me more invested in hockey. And my brother and I are still in contact, even as adults.”

“Yeah, speaking of,” says Gilbert, walking in with three amber shotglasses which he sets on the table, “tit for tat. I get to meet him soon, yeah? Since you met Francis.”

“I figure one family member is worth two friends,” says Matthew, his smile turning daring as he addresses Gilbert. “So show me Antonio first.”

“Where the hell d’ya get that kind of math?” asks Gilbert, snorting. He can’t hide his smile. “Tonio’s probably worth two brothers right there. And Fran’s worth two and a half,” he says belatedly as he catches Francis’s raised eyebrow.

“You know,” says Francis to Matthew, “the three of us have drinking nights every Tuesday.”

“Oh I know,” says Matthew, “but Gil won’t tell me where. I think he’s trying to keep me a secret.” He rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Hey!” says Gilbert. He grumbles something under his breath and nudges two shotglasses towards Matthew and Francis.

“What’s this?” Francis asks. It doesn’t look like beer.

“Canadian whiskey,” says Gilbert. “Birdie keeps some here. I figured you needed something stronger tonight.”

“And here I thought you just didn’t want to use your good beer,” says Matthew. Francis grows increasingly surprised and impressed with Gilbert’s latest choice of boyfriend. Matthew can certainly hold his own against Francis’s usually abrasive friend. “Seriously though, let’s save this for a special occasion,” Matthew continues.

“What? It’s special! You and Francis are meeting, and I’m out of beer. And Francis got out of the house for something besides work, so, y’know, that’s even better.” Gilbert holds up his shotglass for a small toast, and Francis clinks his glass against the two others before swallowing. The liquor burns his throat, but the warmth in his stomach chases away the weight that was there moments before.

“So what do you do?” asks Matthew as he finishes swallowing. “For work?”

Francis takes a moment to make sure his answer isn’t a stutter of alcohol. “I’m a wedding planner,” he says.

“Oh! Are you very busy?”

“He used to be,” says Gilbert, interrupting. “Now he’s only got a few cases, which I mean makes sense because he’s still getting back on his feet.” Matthew nods sympathetically. “Anyway, he has a crush on one of his clients, so he’s working on getting more cases to distract himself.”

Francis stares at Gilbert, half in indignation and half in pure surprise that Gilbert has successfully summarized his past several months of work.

“What? You weren’t going to say it,” says Gilbert.

“That’s, er…” Matthew looks at Francis curiously. “I’m sorry to hear that too, eh?”

“That’s not your fault either,” says Francis, but he mutters to himself and to Gilbert (who can’t understand), “S’il te plaît, ne dis plus.”

“Je suis désolé,” says Matthew. Francis jerks and stares at him owlishly. “Je lui demanderai d’être plus poli.” He whacks Gilbert on the leg.

“Hey!” says Gilbert. “No surprise French!”

“You should really be more polite,” says Matthew. “He was asking you to not say any more.”

“You speak French?” asks Francis.

“My mother was French-Canadian,” says Matthew, smiling. “And from the accent I’d guess you’re from France?”

“That’s right,” says Francis. Maybe it’s the whisky, or maybe it’s that he’s in the presence of a fellow francophone, but he suddenly feels a little less reluctant to let Matthew know the whole sad story of his no-longer-existing love life. He turns to Gilbert. “Remind me, how much did I tell you and Tonio at the last drinks night?”

“You didn’t,” says Gilbert. “You were working on a case.”

Francis knows he kept pretty quiet at the drinking nights before that, too. He wonders what possessed him to keep so quiet about what he witnessed in Alfred Jones. Deep down, he knows: he’s become so paranoid about his feelings, about the crush that his friends warned him to keep as just that, that he’s shut out his only support in the city.

Gilbert gives him some wine—apparently he keeps it for when Antonio and Lovino visit—and between sips that feel like gulps, he spills the entire story. He starts at the meeting at his house where Arthur made him tea, for Matthew to catch up. He spares few details, and even gives everyone’s names. Gilbert listens restlessly until Francis reaches the information he doesn’t know, about Alfred Jones inadvertently developing a crush on a bookseller named Ivan. Matthew also grows wide-eyed at this part, but with a frowning expression that Francis can’t place instead of the fascination that Gilbert shows.

When Francis finishes, he downs the rest of his wine.

“And here is the worst part,” says Francis. He feels like his accent has grown stronger, but due to emotion and not to drink. “This is the first marriage that I ‘ave _not_ rooted for. Even the ones where the couples fought, I wished them well and did my best to make at least their wedding day a good one. But Arthur and Jones—I wish them well separately, but together? I can’t, I just—feel like a very bad person. Like I’m unworthy of my job, and _certainly_ not of Jeanne, let alone Arthur. It’s like I’ve lost my faith in love, because they’re so clearly mismatched. At least Jones is.” Francis leans forward and rests his elbow on his knees, looking into his wine glass. “Arthur thinks he’s loved by Jones. That’s what he wants.”

“Arthur wants to be loved,” says Matthew. He’s nearly whispering. “He thinks that’ll make him love his fiancé.”

Francis nods.

“He’s wrong.”

Francis looks up at Matthew.

“Look, it’s clear Alfred—uh, Jones—likes Arthur a lot. But he’s an idiot. He doesn’t know how to recognize his own feelings, so he’s mixed up love and friendship. He has one with Arthur and one with Ivan, but he’s attached the wrong name to each feeling. And Arthur doesn’t see that either.”

“So Arthur is an idiot?” asks Francis, feeling irrationally defensive.

“No, but he’s lonely and desperate, and marrying Jones isn’t going to make him any less so,” says Matthew.

“So what do I do? Tell him about Ivan?”

“Yes.”

“It will break him.”

“Better now than later,” says Matthew. At Francis’s hesitant expression, his expression softens. “Look,” he says, “I probably have no right to be meddling in anyone’s relationship. And I bet you think the same thing. But if I had—I dunno, a brother who was about to make this kind of mistake, I’d want him to be happy in the long run, even if it makes him unhappy for a little while. And besides—I bet Arthur’s stronger than you give him credit for.”

“But maybe _I'm_ not,” says Francis. “Maybe I won’t be able to stop myself. Maybe I’ll raise my hopes that I have a chance with him, only to be stopped because he’s lost his one experience with love and decided that’s all he can take.”

“So give him time.” For the first time since Francis began his story, Gilbert speaks up. “You’ve already given him tons of it, but he’ll need more. And you’ll be right there. And you’re probably gonna say,” he says, holding up a hand when Francis tries to interrupt, “that you won’t have any reason to see him. But he said you were friends, and he’ll want a friend to tell him, and he’ll want a friend to help him through the bad stuff.”

Francis quirks a smile. “Like you do for me, I assume.”

“Well duh.”

Francis sighs. “Well. Gilbert?”

“Hmm?”

“I would like another shot of whisky before I lose my nerve.”

“You can use my bedroom,” says Gilbert. He gets up, and for a moment Francis thinks he’s going to whisk away into the kitchen to prepare another shot. But as he approaches Francis to retrieve his empty shotglass, he gives him a squeeze on the shoulder.

“Am I doing the right thing?” he asks Matthew as Gilbert leaves. He asks in French, as if he hopes his childhood language will bring him some comfort.

“Depends what you think is right,” responds Matthew. “Me, I think the right thing is to help as many people as possible. Besides, wedding planners already get to ignore a lot of rules about privacy.”

Francis smiles weakly and awaits his shot.

Gilbert returns within seconds. Francis swipes the glass from him and downs the whisky in one swallow, then dashes in the direction Gilbert points in. He finds the first bedroom—probably a guest room, from the boxes littering the floor—and plants himself on the bed.

He dials Arthur.

The phone rings three times. In the pauses between the tones, Francis’s heart threatens to leap out of his throat.

Finally he hears Arthur’s voice. “Hullo, you’ve reached Arthur Kirkland. I can’t answer my phone right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you the minute I can. Thanks.”

The whisky in Francis’s stomach burns a hole. The automated woman’s voice informs him of how he can record his message, but a visual sits in his head and blocks out everything else. Arthur, at his desk, his photo of Alfred Jones behind him alongside his other life accomplishments. Arthur realizes in the middle of sifting through papers that he has a message—he pauses—he picks the phone up and listens.

Francis tries so hard to erase the pain and grief on Arthur’s imaginary face.

How could he possibly leave a message with such awful news? Or even relay it by phone? What was he thinking?

 _You’re a coward,_ the small voice inside him whispers.

Outside his own mind, the phone beeps, instructing him to leave a message.

 _You’re a coward_ , the voice reiterates. _You don’t want to see his face when he finds out. You don’t want to put this situation to your advantage, but you don’t want to be alone. What friendship, especially one as strange as yours and Arthur’s, survives news like this?_

 _So what do I do?_ Francis thinks to himself. He’s gotten past ignoring the voice. It was right about Arthur before, and it could be right again.

_Hang up._

He does.

_Be a coward. There’s no use trying to change that._

He slips the phone back into his pocket.

* * *

“You know what this calls for?” Gilbert crows when Francis emerges. “Drinks!”

He ignores Matthew’s polite assertions that Francis needs time to calm down. Gilbert is, after all, right about one thing: Francis needs another stiff drink. That’s how the three of them find themselves at the same pub where Gilbert, Francis, and Antonio have their Tuesday night drinks.

“Fran, table,” says Gilbert as they walk in. “Birdie, you’re on drink duty with me.”

Francis is about to walk in the direction of their usual booth, but stops short before he can pass the bar.

Sandy hair. Rumpled suit. Thick eyebrows.

_Arthur._

He’s slumped at the bar between people he must consider strangers, for how he keeps his bloodshot eyes trained on his drink. Francis thinks of how the phone rang three times; Arthur must have known he’s called. And rejected the call.

For a moment, Francis stops breathing. Does he know?

Matthew sees Francis stop, follows his gaze, and puts two and two together. “On second thought, Gil,” he says as casually as he can, “I think I’ll find a table.”

“What? Birdie, you don’t know—oh.” Gilbert looks between Matthew and Francis, and follows their gaze. “Nice timing, I guess.” He claps Francis on the shoulder. “So whatcha gonna do?”

“Obviously he’s going to talk to him.”

Francis swivels to stare at Matthew incredulously. “Je ne peux pas,” he complains. “He clearly doesn’t want company right now.”

“Francis.” Matthew straightens his posture. Francis has already forgotten how much taller the Canadian is than him. “How many friends do you think he has?”

“A few.”

“But none of them are here.”

“No.”

“So. Go be there.” Matthew veers in the direction of a table before Francis can offer another retort.

Francis turns back to Gilbert, who is intentionally avoiding his eyes as he tries to grab a bartender.

Francis exhales and looks back at Arthur, who has so far not noticed his presence.

 _You’re a coward,_ the voice says as if in threat.

 _A coward and a friend_ , responds Francis. He takes the three steps forward and taps Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur jerks so quickly Francis fears for his limbs. He turns on the stool, makes eye contact with Francis, and deflates.

“Francis.”

“Arthur.”

They examine each other for a few moments. Finally Francis gestures to the half-finished pint near Arthur’s elbow. “Are you alright?”

“God, no, I’m not.” Arthur swivels himself to fully face Francis. “It’s been a bloody awful night, and I’m not sure I want to go home. So here I am.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Francis. He pauses. “Care to talk about it?”

Arthur surveys the two men he’s sandwiched between. One of them, a short smiling man with a lilting accent, turns away from his conversation with the bartender—Mathias, Francis knows him from other nights—and sees Arthur surveying the seat. “I can move if you like,” he says. “I’m just waiting for my fiancé.”

“That would be very kind,” says Francis.

The young man downs a shot of vodka and vacates his stool. The door opens at that moment, revealing a tall man with glasses. Francis recognizes him instantly from meetings, and so does the short man, whom Francis immediately realizes is one of his clients. “Berwald!” he calls and nearly runs to the door to meet him.

“That was lucky,” says Arthur, setting his elbows back onto the counter as Francis takes the seat beside him.

“Right,” says Francis. “Now.”

“Sorry I didn’t take your call,” says Arthur. “I found out something rather awful tonight, and I’ve just been reeling.”

“What’s that?”

“Alfred has apparently been seeing another man.”

Francis’s face freezes as he tries to figure out how he should be reacting. Apparently his exact expression is sufficient, because Arthur doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“He’s a Russian man named Ivan who works at a bookstore,” says Arthur. “I mean really, a _bookstore!_ And here I spent years believing my bloody fiancé was all but illiterate! Yet there he is, chatting him up and exchanging phone numbers and sending texts and _reading his recommendations._ ” Arthur props up his head with one hand clenching his hair. “I swear to god, if the last few texts weren’t so different, I’d be tossing his arse to the curb.” Even this thought seems to be too much for Arthur, as he shuts his eyes.

“How, ah, did you find out?” asks Francis. He doubts Jones took him to the store.

“Alfred asked me to look through his phone for something his coworker sent him. I found his and Ivan’s chat history right beneath it.”

“And how did…does he know you know?”

“He can bloody well guess,” says Arthur. “I threw the phone at him and left.”

Knowing Jones and his obliviousness, Francis imagines there’s a fifty-fifty chance he figured it out. Leaving Jones sitting alone in his house, sifting through his texting history and wondering what went wrong. Possibly texting Ivan. Francis doesn’t want to know.

“I blocked his number,” says Arthur. “Just until I can wrap my head around this. I mean, he loves _me!_ Or he said he did. Or he still does, but then who’s Ivan?”

“He might be a friend,” points out Francis. He hopes so, anyway.

“If they’re only friends, then why were Alfred’s last texts to him saying that they should see less of each other, and that he’s gotten too close?” Arthur takes another swig of his—beer? lager? ale? Francis could never tell. “That is the _one thing_ , Francis, the one _beacon_ of hope that’s keeping me from hiring a hitman or…or something.”

Slowly, Francis leans a little closer to Arthur. “You don’t really mean to hire a hitman,” he says. He’s seen Arthur enraged, but even that degree of anger never turned him murderous.

“I do,” says Arthur. He sounds almost as if he’s pouting. “I could very well kill ‘im and be done with it. Except for that he looks like he’s trying.” He takes another drink and turns to look at Francis. If he’s surprised that Francis has drawn closer, he says nothing. “Francis, am I a bad person?”

“You? Why would you be?”

“For thinking of not forgiving him. Because I know he’s going to give me that hangdog look with those big blue eyes, and god damn me if I’m not going to forgive him then and there. He cheated, didn’t he?”

“It does look that way.”

“But he’s a monogamist at heart. One of the things I liked about him, loyal to a T.” Arthur looks down into his drink. “Maybe that’s why I’m so upset. I thought at least—at _least_ I wouldn’t have infidelity to worry about with him. Maybe not sweeping romantic gestures or whatever sod the movies dream up, but at least he’d be faithful. And honest.”

“And clueless.”

“Hm?”

Again Francis’s mouth has disobeyed him. His mind sprints through the rest of his statement. _He’s clueless because he doesn’t understand the man he asked to marry. Because he assumes comfort is the same as love, because he doesn’t try to look deeper into himself or you. Because he doesn’t see you, Arthur, and immediately fall to his knees in awe._

He can’t say that. Not with Arthur looking as bereft as he does, his shoulders hunched and his eyes red and moist. Arthur Kirkland needs love, but he’s not going to take it here and now, just when what he thought was love dealt him a near-fatal blow.

Lacking other options, Francis steals Arthur’s glass and takes a swig from it. It tastes horrible, but it doesn’t burn as badly as the whisky. Still, it’s alcohol, and he needs it for what he’s about to do.

“Arthur,” says Francis. “Alfred Jones is an oblivious man. He doesn’t see love for what it is. He confuses friendship with love, and vice-versa. So I think you should go and ask him to think, really think, about who he’s fallen in love with. Based on his latest texts to Ivan, I think he’s already figuring it out.”

Francis hasn’t read those texts, can’t guarantee anything on Jones’s part. But it’s what Arthur wants to hear, and Francis hates himself for the weight that rolls off his chest when one side of Arthur’s lips quirk in a smile.

“You think so?”

“I’m a wedding planner. What good would I be if that trick didn’t work?”

Arthur snorts. “Had to try that a lot, eh?”

“Oh, all the time. There are always tears and screaming, somewhere between the bride trying on the dress and the big day itself. Usually at the rehearsal.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Francis looks, really looks at Arthur. He seems calm, breathes easier, keeps his eyes on Francis with a gentleness that Francis hasn’t seen him use even on Jones. Maybe he only needs distraction, or maybe he genuinely wants to listen. Francis doesn’t care.

Earlier tonight, when he couldn’t handle the silence of his own home, Francis first wanted to see Arthur.

“There is,” he says.

* * *

Arthur buys him a drink. He mocks him for choosing wine, but Francis no longer feels that he needs hard alcohol and doesn’t want to ruin his taste buds more than he has tonight. Arthur refills his own pint, and together they work to fill the holes in themselves.

Francis talks with abandon about Jeanne and French music and too-young brides throwing tantrums for having yellow flowers in their bouquet, and Arthur counters with tales of his brothers and triumphs in law school and the horrors of his first few years of grunt work at the firm. Half an hour in, Arthur fully smiles. An hour and a half in, he laughs. Francis has lost all sense of time and has begun measuring by the number of pints Arthur downs, when an abrupt guitar riff plays on the jukebox near the corner.

“Oh god,” says Arthur, interrupting his own story. “I love this song.”

“I honestly forgot there was a jukebox here,” says Francis, looking confusedly at the corner. Arthur grabs him by the hand— _the hand_ , oh god he’s never done that before, how many drinks has he had or does this mean something more?—and takes him towards the jukebox. Francis assumes they’re only going to investigate it, but to his mild amusement and morbid fascination, Arthur begins to sway his hips.

“C’mon,” says Arthur, “you know the Kinks. Everyone loves ‘em.” He then begins to sing along. “Girl, I want to be with you all of the time—all day, and all of the night!”

“How do you…?” Francis means to ask how Arthur can dance to this—the beat is catchy but provokes nothing more than bobbing along—but laughter from a few tables over makes him pause. He looks over to see Gilbert nearly crying with laughter and Matthew waving while trying to hide his snickers.

“Your guy can really hold his drink!” calls Gilbert sarcastically.

Francis rolls his eyes. If this is Gilbert’s idea of helping, he really isn’t. But Francis isn’t going to let him know that. Slowly he begins to match Arthur’s hip movements, and soon his whole body is swaying with the beat. He declines when Arthur tries to make him mimic some new flailing movements that he decided to make up, but he can’t deny that the tune and Arthur’s rapture with it are mesmerizing.

The track changes to something that comes from the modern era, and Arthur grumbles.

“F’I give you a quarter, will you change it?” he slurs. The dancing has either tired him out or sent more alcohol to his head.

“Sure,” says Francis. Arthur all but leans over his shoulder, directing him as he flips through the songs as if he thinks he’s helping him through a video game. They queue up three more songs, all from well before either of them were born, and Arthur’s head rolls in an approving nod.

As they dance, Francis wonders how conscious Arthur really is. His movements have certainly grown looser, but his eyes remain intent on Francis. This is different from talking with Arthur. Talking, he has the change to gesture, to divert topics, to leave space between them. Dancing, he has no excuse to keep any further from him than the crowded bar makes him be.

Long before Jeanne’s death, Francis believed in wordless communication. He uses it a bit with Antonio and Gilbert, but ultimately they pick up different wavelengths than he does. Dancing with Arthur is like finally finding a clear frequency after being stranded on an island. Being this close to Arthur is like drinking water after wandering through a desert.

The third track is a slow one. Arthur blinks. “Forgot this one isn’t danceable,” he says. He sounds clearer, but far from sober. “I just saw Paul McCartney’s name and thought it’d be good.”

“It’s good,” says Francis. “And we can still dance.”

“None of that fancy French stuff, I hope?” says Arthur. But he doesn’t step away.

Hesitantly, hoping he’s not misreading things, Francis slips his hands on Arthur’s waist. He’s still wearing a linen work shirt that crinkles under Francis’s sweaty hands, but the heat of him is what keeps his palms glued to the spot.

He locks eyes with Arthur. _Don’t misunderstand me,_ he begs in his mind. This isn’t the niggling voice in his head, only him. _I do love you. Enough to touch you, and enough not to do anything more._

Arthur locks his hands together behind Francis’s neck.

Francis becomes hyperaware that they’re the same height. That Arthur has a smattering of faded freckles and a mole near his left ear. That the lyrics speak to him as much as any of Arthur’s songs, that they take him hostage as much as do Arthur’s eyes.

 _Baby, I'm a man, maybe I'm a lonely man_  
_Who's in the middle of something_  
_That he doesn't really understand._

 _Baby, I'm a man,_  
_And maybe you're the only woman who could ever help me._  
_Baby, won't you help me to understand?_

“Francis?” says Arthur.

Francis tilts his head. He can’t begin to guess what Arthur wants, but for the smallest, the most infinitesimal of seconds, he lets himself hope for one particular admission.

“I…I’m going to be sick.”

Francis drops his hands. The second is over. “Let’s bring you to the bathroom, then.”

He escorts Arthur to the back and waits outside the stall for him, and makes him rinse his mouth when he’s done. He does this numbly, not letting himself reflect on what else could have been said.

“I’ll call you a cab,” says Francis as he guides him into the tiny hallway leading back to the pub. “You shouldn’t drink any more tonight.”

“Don’t call me a cab,” says Arthur. He leans against the wall, half in weariness and half in protest. “I don’ have a place to go.”

“Alfred will be worried about you.”

“Bollocks to Alfred,” says Arthur. “Let ‘im worry. Deservzit.”

“Then where are you staying tonight?”

Arthur mumbles.

“What?”

“Thought I’d try for ‘ere.”

“Here?” Francis gapes. “You can’t possibly stay here all night.”

“Can.”

“Where?”

“Under the table.”

Francis pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Come on,” he concludes. He pulls Arthur by the elbow back into the bar.

Gilbert’s and Matthew’s table has been taken by another group. Looking around, Francis doesn’t see them, and decides to check his phone. There’s one text.

_Birdie has work 2morrow, so had 2 take him home. Thx 4 fun date nite – hope u liked urs ;) -Gil_

Francis rolls his eyes. Gilbert has a full keyboard and still decides to text like a teenage girl.

He directs Arthur past their spots at the bar—taken as well, as Mathias the bartender indicates with an apologetic wave—and out the door. The air is brisk but there’s no ice on the ground, so Francis decides they can afford the walk.

“Where we goin’?” asks Arthur.

“My flat.”

Arthur is silent. Then he mutters, “Like your flat.”

“I’m glad you do.”

They walk silently, crossing the streets with care on Francis’s part and abandon on Arthur’s. Halfway to his flat Francis realizes Arthur probably drove here, but when he tries to bring up the topic of the car Arthur looks at him confusedly, and Francis drops it.

He guides Arthur up the three flights of stairs to his flat and opens the door. The air still feels stagnant, the heating just a bit too stifling, but Arthur sighs as if he’s walked into his own home.

“Stay there while I grab some blankets,” says Francis. He then eyes Arthur. “Unless you need the toilet again.”

“‘M good, ‘m good,” says Arthur, waving him off. Francis shrugs and opens his linens closet.

“Wossis?” calls Arthur. He sounds as if he’s wandered into the kitchen.

“That?” asks Francis when he follows Arthur in. “That’s my portable speaker.”

“You play music?”

“Sometimes.”

“Course you do,” mumbles Arthur. “Probably bloody French stuff.”

“My house, my music,” says Francis. He shakes his head.

“S’not a bad thing,” says Arthur. This catches Francis by surprise. “Some French music’s okay.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better,” says Francis.

“Just a lot of it sounds the same,” says Arthur. He picks up the speaker, deep in thought. “No beat.” He holds up the speaker to Francis. “When d’you play this?”

“When I clean. Or cook, sometimes.”

Arthur looks between the speaker and Francis. “Well that’s bloody perfect,” he concludes quietly.

Francis looks at him oddly. He doubts Arthur will remember this conversation in the morning, so he takes this chance to escape back to his linens closet and pick out some sheets.

“Now,” says Francis, calling Arthur into the living room as he makes up the couch, “my bedroom is the furthest one down the hall—”

“No guest bed?” asks Arthur.

“Just my room and a study,” says Francis. Even if Arthur asks to sleep in the study, though, he’ll refuse. Nobody has touched that space since his mother stored Jeanne’s things there.

“Then I take the couch.”

“No.”

“S’your bed.”

“No. You’re the guest.”

Arthur pauses. “I can’t sleep where your wife slept.”

Francis straightens. “Neither could I. It’s a new mattress. Come on, Arthur, to bed.”

Arthur crosses his arms and, in a burst of surprising speed, weaves around Francis and sits himself on the couch.

“No.”

Francis looks at him incredulously. “Alright. Fine.” He shakes his head—whether in defeat or affection he can’t say—and retreats to the kitchen. When he’s returned with a glass of water and some aspirin, Arthur has collapsed on his side and fallen asleep without even covering himself with a blanket.

Francis sets the glass and pills on the coffee table, pulls off Arthur’s shoes, and drapes him in a soft blanket his mother sent him. He takes a moment to look at Arthur’s sleeping face—soft, smoothed out, mouth slightly open and hair tousled beyond recognition—before turning himself to his room.

Most of the alcohol has left his system, so sleep eludes him for a few minutes. In those minutes, he relives the few moments where he thought Arthur might actually love him back.

* * *

 

He doesn’t realize until he wakes—at eight o’clock, despite that it was nearly dawn when he fell asleep—that he’s admitted it to himself.

_I love him._

He tries it out for taste.

_I love him._

This is no longer a crush. This is no longer something he can pour into his work. Somewhere between flower orders and guest lists and casual conversation his feelings grew until they consumed him, made him ache with loneliness and the hope that maybe—

Oh god, he’s in the living room.

Francis steps into the room wearing his robe to see that, yes, Arthur is still there. He’s rolled over, is now facing the couch, but he breathes deeply and evenly.

Francis leans against the frame of the doorway, wondering when Arthur might wake. Today is a Friday, he realizes, so Arthur might appreciate a wake-up before he’s entirely late for work. But not without caffeine.

Francis has just set the kettle to boil when his cell phone rings from his bedroom.

Arthur rolls over in his sleep, and Francis dashes into the room to stop the ringing. He answers without checking the caller ID. “Allo?”

“Where is he.”

“Mr. Jones?” Oh god.

“He’s not at work,” says Jones. His tone is serious with a tinge of frustration. “His coworker Lukas says his boyfriend saw him at a pub last night. With you. And his car was still there when I checked, so he probably left with you. So.” Jones sighs heavily. “Where is he.”

“With me.” At Jones’s humorless snort, Francis elaborates. “In my home. He had too much to drink and wouldn’t let me take him to his own flat.”

“Because he knew I’d be there,” says Jones. The defeat in his tone makes Francis think there really is something to the hangdog act Arthur is so eager to avoid. “Look, I’m sorry for that. I’ll repay you whatever you need if he threw up on anything.”

“Oh that’s not—” Retching sounds come from the living room. “Well. We’ll see, I suppose.” He gives directions to his flat.

“Cool, thanks, be right there. So, um.” Jones clearly isn’t finished, although Francis hears the sound of footsteps and an engine. “What have you told him?”

“Told him? Er…nothing, really.”

“ _Nothing_ nothing, or nothing he didn’t already read?”

“I played dumb, Mr. Jones, is that what you want to hear?” Despite himself, Francis snaps. “I said nothing about Ivan until he said it. I commiserated. I gave him all the comfort he should have had from _you_ , and now—”

Francis trails off. His bedroom door is open, and though the frame and on the other end of the hallway he sees Arthur Kirkland, stumbling like the walking dead and widening his bleary eyes.

“Oh thank god,” says Jones. “God, I owe you so—”

Francis hangs up the call. “I—”

“You knew.” Arthur isn’t asking.

“…It was an accident—”

“What? _What_ was an accident?” Arthur stumbles down the hallway until he’s barely two inches apart from Francis. “You _knew_ my fiancé was cheating on me, and you didn’t say a _bloody_ thing. And how long have you known?”

“Maybe—”

“Ugh—no, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think about this.” The hangover catches up with Arthur all at once, and he squeezes his eyes shut and folds his arms. Francis doesn’t speak until he thinks he sees tears budding at the corner of Arthur’s eyes.

“Arthur, I…”

“ _What?_ ” Arthur’s green eyes flare open, and a tear slides down one cheek.

“…I meant everything I said,” says Francis. And he really did. He meant that that he doesn’t mind being friends. That Arthur needs to talk to his fiancé. That Arthur deserves better.

“I did too,” says Arthur. What he means by that, Francis doesn’t know. “Here’s one more thing I mean. I’m going to walk out of this flat and wait for Alfred—because I _know_ he’s coming for me, that’s what he _does_ like a proper fiancé. And then he and I are going to have the talk I was trying to avoid, the one _you_ said we should have had. And let me tell you this,” he says, his shoulders shaking. “If your bloody advice works, you’re still on as our wedding planner, and we go through with the wedding. We finish this fucking job and never speak again. But if you’re wrong—if he _doesn’t_ love me, if your magic love advice doesn’t _work_ —you’re fired.”

Arthur straightens his shoulders. He likes the sound of that. “Fired,” he repeats. “Because you’re my wedding planner, and because I can fire you if I like.”

Francis nods silently. He knew that from the start, but forgot it along the way. Right about the time he and Arthur had their first discussion in Amante Café.

“Well then.” Arthur nods back. He no longer looks Francis in the eye. “I’m going to grab my shoes.”

In the kitchen, the kettle begins screaming. It’s the only sound in the flat, now that Arthur has had his say and Francis has declined his. He doesn’t have a right to a say. He’s overstepped, has lost a friendship and almost definitely a client, and his flat is about to be empty and soundless except for the breaking of his battered heart.

By the time he grabs the kettle, Arthur has slammed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned (in order) are: La Mer (Charles Trenet), Nous debout (Zaz), Francis (Coeur de Pirate), C'était salement romantique (Coeur de Pirate), All Day and All of the Night (The Kinks), Maybe I'm Amazed (Paul McCartney)
> 
> French translations (in order, when not provided directly after the text) are:  
> Francis, tu as tant de choses à dire - Francis, you have so many things to say  
> Tu est plus facile à faire qu’à comprendre - You're easier to do than to understand  
> S’il te plaît, ne dites pas plus. - Please, don't say any more.  
> Je suis désolé. Je lui demanderai d’être plus poli. - I'm very sorry. I'll ask him to be more polite.  
> Je ne peux pas - I can't


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could sit on this ending until I feel better about it, like I usually do, but starting Tuesday I have to write my thesis (gah), and I WILL die if I have this fic hanging over my head too. So I apologize if the ending feels rushed or unedited - I just refuse to leave this story unfinished, and I'm about to have zero time to finish it another day.
> 
> While this isn't one of my most popular fics, I remain floored by everyone's support over this drabble. Thank you so much for your super-kind comments and kudos - here's hoping the wait was worth it!
> 
> (Also, forgive the swearing in this chapter - it seems I can't write confrontations without some...)

Arthur doesn’t fire him. Francis has no opinion about this. He’s so tired.

Gilbert and Antonio offer as much support as they can offer him at the next drinks night. They ask him gently about Arthur’s conclusion and congratulate him as mildly as they can, feeling out whether he’s happy to keep a client so dear to him or distraught to marry off a man he loves. Francis shakes his head at their further questions, which mostly involve how Arthur has sounded when speaking to him. Arthur hasn’t been speaking to him. Jones has.

Jones is clearly grateful to Francis for his help so far. He responds to Francis’s messages later and with less detail than Arthur would have, but he seems determined to keep their working relationship as pleasant as possible. He gives away no hint of what Arthur may or may not want to pass on; his comments always consist of “we”, as if the couple is already a single entity. “We decided”, “we figured”, “we were hoping”.

Oddly, this strategy helps keep Francis in focus. If he doesn’t think of who makes up “we”, he can ignore the word entirely.

The strategy stops being so comforting as they approach the rehearsal ceremony. As weeks lead up to the event he stops sleeping well, and then stops sleeping, and then starts finding every excuse he can to not go home.

Now he sits in Amante Café the night before the rehearsal, ignoring both Lovino’s sour looks as he closes the café and the email Jones has just sent about the tuxedo try-ons that took place yesterday.

“Francis?” asks Antonio gently. Francis looks up blearily to see his friend leaning on his mop in an attempt at looking casual and sympathetic.

“I know, Antonio. Just…five more minutes.”

“In five minutes you’re not going to open the email.”

“How did you know it was an email?”

“I’ve been cleaning behind you for a while now.”

“…Jones sent attachments.”

“Ah.” Antonio nods, but his furrowed brow betrays his confusion.

“There’s probably a picture of Arthur attached.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Alfred Jones is not the most sensitive of people.”

Antonio sighs and takes the seat across from Francis. Francis lowers his laptop screen. “I’m sorry we didn’t have drinks tonight,” says Antonio. “It sounds like you could use one.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Gilbert,” says Francis.

Antonio grins. “Somebody has to take his place while he’s off running errands with his boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe _Gilbert_ has a more active love life than I do.”

“Hey,” says Antonio, “you were the first of us three to marry. Even before I realized how I felt about Lovi.”

“Hurry up, bastard!” Lovino apparently hears his name, because he calls over and fixes Francis with a glare. Francis used to be unnerved by this habit, but he’s beginning to separate Lovino’s true anger from his other emotions. Lovino isn’t fully angry at him. He just wants to go home.

“I shouldn’t keep you,” says Francis. He begins to shut the laptop, but Antonio’s hand catches the screen.

“Where are you going tonight?” asks Antonio.

Francis raises an eyebrow. “Where do you think I’m going to go?”

“Not home.”

“I’ve been home every night.”

“But you’re not sleeping there.” Antonio’s slight smile falls. “Do you need to come home with me and Lovi? You can have our couch. Or the floor,” he amends quickly, thinking that Francis will be upset by the reminder of the last time someone slept on his own couch. “We have an inflatable mattress, it could be very comfortable…”

Francis tries to imagine it: lying on Antonio’s living room floor, counting down the hours until he sees Arthur again. Imagining the ways he’ll be ignored, insulted, screamed at. Imagining the pitying look that Jones will give him, one that Francis will think of bitterly as a sign of his victory. Imagining the songs Arthur will want to play.

If he’s not going to sleep, he may as well do so at his own apartment, where he at least has proof that his lost loves exist as more than ghosts.

“I shouldn’t,” says Francis. “I have some supplies stored at home, anyway. It would take too long to retrieve them.”

Antonio sighs and nods at his flimsy excuse. “If you think so. But Francis,” he says as Francis closes his laptop and sets about packing up. “Please don’t think twice about calling me or Gilbert. Tonight, or anytime tomorrow.”

Francis pauses to examine Antonio. Then nods, and gives him a small smile for the first time that night. “Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll buy some coffee before I go.”

“I have some very nice crème liqueur in the back,” says Antonio. “You won’t even taste it. Unless you want vodka?”

“We’ll see.”

Francis bids Antonio and Lovino goodnight and walks home. The minute he reaches home he sits in his armchair—not on the couch, never on the couch after that night—and opens Jones’s email.

The attachment is a transcript of a phone message from one of the caterers. Jones accidentally received the call and forwarded it to Francis along with the report “since I’m emailing you already”.

Francis nods to himself and prepares for bed. He looks himself in the mirror, dark circles under his eyes and the flat line of his lips, and asks himself why he thought Jones would send a photo of Arthur—Arthur who largely insists on tradition for this wedding, Arthur who would never let the groom see him in his wedding clothes before the wedding day.

Francis wants to see Arthur’s face again. He will tomorrow. But the price he’ll pay will leave him gutted and bled dry.

* * *

Francis carries his briefcase and the to-go cup of coffee Antonio made for him. Francis vetoed the alcohol idea but did ask for an extra shot of espresso; he managed a few hours of sleep, more due to exhaustion than self-care, and somehow feels even worse than after his sleepless nights.

He stands at the double doors of the cathedral nestled in the middle of Manhattan. After one of his first conversations with Arthur, wherein Arthur hypothesized that Francis was trying to make offerings to God, Francis tried to show Arthur some of the newer venues he was researching. Arthur declined. Francis strongly suspects he wants to thank God after all the wishes at Mass that he made for love. He ignores the voice inside him suggesting that Arthur remembers their conversation too, that he wants to show Francis he understands.

He takes a deep drink from his cup and opens the cathedral door.

Jones is talking to a member of the church near the pulpit, and yet despite being an entire church-length away Francis can hear him clearly. He’s surprised: Jones is notoriously late unless brought along by…

Arthur is examining one of the stained glass windows.

Before he can decide whether to flee or to approach, Arthur hears the door close and makes eye contact. Automatically he tenses and scowls, but after only a second his expression shifts to one of belligerent confusion.

He’s two windows away from where Francis stands, so he takes only a few steps to stand near enough that Francis can hear him.

“You look like shit,” he says accusingly.

“You don’t,” says Francis. Not necessarily the first words he planned to speak to Arthur, but they’re true. He looks well-assembled, like he’s slipped away from the office after having made a rousing presentation that saved the firm. His suit fits him well—it’s not crumpled, the blazer isn’t slung over his arm like Francis has seen before—and he looks at least moderately better-rested than Francis does.

Arthur doesn’t know where to go with Francis’s comment. He stands examining Francis for a few more moments, his eyes switching between a glare and a tense inspection, before he remembers that Francis is his employee.

“My brothers can only afford to come for the actual ceremony,” he says, “but Alfred’s brother will rehearse his role as best man. The wedding party will be asymmetrical.”

“Nothing I haven’t managed before,” says Francis. “We’ll leave empty places for them and I’ll give them their instructions on the actual wedding day. Do you have your vows?”

“Yes.”

“May I see them?”

“No.”

“It’s usually helpful for me to have a spare copy. In case you forget.”

“I have them memorized. I won’t forget.”

“Oh!” Jones sees Arthur and Francis talking and interrupts his own conversation to bound over. “Something about vows, right Francis? Here ya go,” he says, taking out a slip of paper from the breast of his jacket. “Arthur made me print out a spare. Guess it makes sense!” He casts a look around. “This place looks great, by the way. Not exactly a beach wedding, but Arthur made a pretty good point about the commute to an actual good beach.”

“I’m glad you like it,” says Francis, pocketing the slip of paper without glancing at it. “Will it be sufficient for the number of people you’ve invited?”

“Yeah, about that, Arthur changed his mind about—”

“I want it smaller,” says Arthur. He’s looking at Jones, not Francis, though it’s clear he’s speaking to the latter. “More intimate. Seems nicer than a wedding with everyone from work.”

“Which is kinda weird, don’t you think?” asks Jones. “Since, like, all your friends are from work?”

“I invited my friends,” says Arthur defensively. He casts the tiniest look at Francis, as if he’s making sure Francis knows he spends time with other people.

“I know, babe,” says Jones. Behind Francis the door opens, and Jones’s face lights up. “Mattie!” he crows. Before Francis or Arthur can say anything, he’s left them alone to wrap his arms around a tall blond man who looks like—

“Matthew?” Francis squawks.

“Alfred’s brother,” says Arthur. Francis turns to find him eyeing him with increasing skepticism. “You know him?”

“Er…a little,” says Francis.

“He speaks French,” says Arthur. “I’m sure you’ll get along fantastically.”

Francis tries to decipher what he means by that, but more people are entering the church—most of whom appearing to be members of Jones’s half of the wedding party—and Arthur seems to be on good terms with at least a few of them. No surprise there, Francis supposes. Arthur curtly excuses himself and strides towards a small Asian man who bows as Arthur approaches, just before Jones nearly bowls him over with a cry of “Kiku!”

Leaving Matthew free.

Francis knows he has a job to do, but it can wait just a few more minutes. He steps towards Matthew, who meets his eyes as he approaches.

“You might have saved me some trouble,” says Francis in French, “if you’d mentioned who your brother was.”

“I didn’t know most of his story,” says Matthew. “One moment he was single and loving his job, and the next moment he was engaged.”

“And not loving his job?”

“Of course he loved it. But he seemed a little too determined to marry from within his circle of friends. Friends who all come from work, of course, where he's trying to make a good impression.” Matthew looks at his brother, who’s leading a conversation between Arthur and two or three other people. “I love him, but sometimes I think he needs a good hit to the head with a hockey stick.”

“Do you know why he wants to marry?”

“Didn’t Arthur tell you? All the best jobs go to family men.”

“And Alfred told you that.”

“Of course not. He thinks he’s in love. Which, I don’t know, he could be.” Matthew looks at Francis. “But after I spoke with you, I’ve been beginning to think he has the wrong idea."

Francis raises an eyebrow. “I suspect you know something I don’t.”

Matthew smiles. “I can’t guarantee anything. But call it a hunch.”

Francis can’t think of how to pry more information out of him, so he finally does what he should have been doing: his job. He pulls Jones aside and clarifies how he and Arthur want the timing to go, where they want the wedding party to stand, and what order everyone should enter in. He takes notes and relays this information to the priest, who accepts the scattered details graciously. He only needs to talk to Arthur once.

“Excuse me?” he asks. Arthur has been chatting with a young man with long brown hair and who carries a pile of papers, as if he plans to make up work the minute the rehearsal is finished. Arthur pretends not to hear him.

“Arthur,” says Francis.

“Mr. Kirkland,” says Arthur sharply. He interrupts himself and turns to Francis. The brown-haired man excuses himself.

“Mr. Kirkland. Mr. Jones forgot which song you want to play for the procession.”

“Song?”

“You…do want rock, don’t you?” Francis looks at him oddly. “You always do.”

“I doubt you have a right to assume what I ‘always’ want,” says Arthur.

“Not always, then, but often enough.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“I can _guess_ ,” says Francis more forcefully than he means to have spoken. “After all this time, I can guess. But I want you to be happy with—”

“With what, Francis?” Arthur folds his arms. “With the choices you’re going to make for me?”

“I asked this time. I tried.”

“You didn’t before.”

“I _did_ ,” says Francis. “You might have blocked Jones’s number that night, but you didn’t block mine. You didn’t see any missed calls?”

“I rejected your call.”

“What do you think that call was about?”

“Then why didn’t you leave a message?”

“Did you really _want_ that message?” Francis hisses. The more he speaks, the more he feels like he’s about to boil over. The lid is about to fly off, the seal is about to break, and yes he’s been sad for these past weeks and months but now he’s _angry_ because Arthur has the nerve to accuse him of not regretting his silence, of _not caring_. “What could I possibly say? ‘Arthur, I’m so sorry your fiancé who loves you apparently loves someone else, at least judging from a chance encounter that I really shouldn’t have had, oh and by the way—’”

Behind Arthur, the cathedral door opens. Francis would ignore it except for that, of all the people Alfred Jones knows, this one Francis recognizes.

Ivan stands in the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow that falls at Francis’s feet.

Arthur swivels around just as Ivan spies Francis and walks toward him. “You are the wedding planner, yes?” asks Ivan.

Francis silently nods.

“Please tell me where Alfred is.”

Ivan is breathing heavily, his mouth almost covered by the pink scarf which is unnecessary in this mild spring weather. He looks like he’s about to combust on the spot, like he’s about to run. Francis suddenly hears the blood pounding between his own two ears, hears the words rattling around in his mouth that he was almost about to share with Arthur.

He straightens himself and looks over Ivan as if greeting an ally.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” says Arthur. He glares at Ivan, an impressive feat considering that Arthur is a good foot shorter than him and has to crane his neck.

Ivan turns slowly to face Arthur. “You are the fiancé.”

“You’re bloody right I am.”

Ivan looks him over. Arthur’s stance is hostile, but his stature seems to comfort Ivan to the point where he shakes his head. “I must speak with Alfred,” he says.

Francis points right, where Jones is speaking with the priest.

“Thank you,” says Ivan. He begins to make his way through the crowd, which parts for him due to his height and his tentative yet purposeful stride.

Francis turns to see Arthur looking at him with wide eyes and increased breath. “You have some _bloody_ nerve,” he says, “inviting him here. That’s Ivan, isn’t it?”

“It is. But I didn’t invite him here.”

“Then who the fuck DID?” asks Arthur. To Francis’s great surprise, Arthur’s voice wobbles on the last syllable. His anger is puttering out; he’s scared. He dashes after Ivan before Francis can say anything.

“Well?” asks a voice from behind him. It’s Matthew. “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

Francis raises both eyebrows. “The errand you ran with Gilbert last night.”

“I might have wanted to visit a bookstore.”

Francis looks after Arthur. “He’s never going to forgive you for this.”

“I want Arthur to be happy, just like I want that for Al. Even if they both end up hating me for it.”

Francis shakes his head and makes his way through the wedding party, which is morbidly interested in the tall stranger standing too close to an abnormally flustered Jones while Arthur tries to stand at his fiancé’s side. Francis stations himself nearby, pretending to check his notes.

“Look, big guy, I did send you an invite,” says Jones, “but it was for the actual wedding. A few days from now.”

“I am aware,” says Ivan. He already looks to be running out of steam, judging by the abashed looks he casts to the crowd of witnesses. “I wanted only to…to ask you if you are sure.”

“I’m always sure.”

“Then why did you forget to tell me you were getting married?”

“I just…forgot, okay? Like I said. I forget sometimes.”

“You do not forget your own wedding.”

“I do. I forget my own shoes sometimes. Ask Arthur.” Jones wraps an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur immediately tosses it off.

“Actually, Alfred, I’m quite curious too,” he says, his tone deceptively casual. “Why did you forget to mention your own wedding?”

“God, nobody told me this was going to be a damn interrogation, okay?” Jones snaps. He looks chastened when the priest, who is making his way to his office, turns to frown at him.

“And on top of that,” says Arthur, “I don’t remember sending an invitation to your friend.”

“It was under ‘Braginski’,” mutters Jones. “I had him in my pile of work invites.”

“And you thought this was a good idea,” says Ivan, “knowing how I felt about you?”

“Felt?” Jones says. The simultaneous curiosity and hurt in his tone makes Arthur’s eyebrows raise.

“Feel,” says Ivan. “So I am here. Asking if you are sure.”

“What happens if I’m sure?”

“I will not come to your wedding. We will be civil if we see each other, but I will ask you to stop texting me.”

“But…I like texting you,” says Jones. He looks lost, and then guilty as his eyes meet Arthur’s.

“You might as well keep up the texting,” says Arthur bitterly, turning to Ivan. “Since it seems he texts you more often than he does me.”

“I text you!” says Jones. “What about the time I sent you that vine of the guy falling off his roof—”

“Three months ago,” says Arthur. “But that’s not what you send Ivan, do you?”

“He sent me that as well,” says Ivan quietly.

Arthur opens and closes his mouth. “Alfred,” he says, “is there _anything_ you tell me that you don’t tell Ivan too?”

“I mean…” Jones bites his lip. “You’re both my best friends.”

“Then why are you marrying _me?”_ asks Arthur. As he raises his voice, more people in the wedding party drop their pretend conversations and stare at the couple and Ivan.

Francis takes this opportunity to do something useful. “If I could direct everyone to the first few rows of the pews, I’ll have your instructions momentarily,” he announces. The audience leaves, half of them gladly and half of them reluctant to lose their eavesdropping positions. Francis, not wanting to anger Arthur any further, makes to follow the last of them.

“Hang on there,” says Jones, stepping towards Francis and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not exactly playing fair either, Arthur. For months everything’s been ‘Francis this’ and ‘Francis that’ and ‘do you think Francis would like this’. How’s that different from me being Ivan’s friend?”

Arthur flushes red. “Because at least I _tell_ you about my friends,” he says.

“Oh yeah, because you’ve told me everything,” says Jones with a snort. “Just like the times you said you ‘had an errand’ and went to go hang out god knows where for hours. And then you’d come home looking all upset, but then sometimes you’d come home smiling and then there’d be little Francis comments for the next few days. I’m not an idiot, Arthur, I know you were waiting for him.”

“I should, ah, really be taking care of things,” says Francis, trying to scoot away.

“No, go on, why don’t you talk about all the time you and Arthur have spent together since you were hired?” says Jones. He doesn’t look angry; his eyes, in fact, are unreadable.

“He’s the _wedding planner_ ,” says Arthur as if this explains everything. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were…jealous?”

Seemingly despite himself, Arthur’s tone raises at the end of the sentence. He’s not accusing, he’s asking, and not just about jealousy. He's echoing Ivan's question: he's asking if Jones is sure he wants to marry Arthur.

A beat.

Jones sighs and lets go of Francis’s shoulder. “No,” he says. He meets Arthur’s eyes shamefully. “I’m not.”

“…Is that why we talked so much?” asks Francis, looking at Arthur. “To make him jealous?”

“I mean…no, not really,” says Arthur. Between Francis’s question and Jones’s confession, he’s looking increasingly lost. He puts a hand to his head as if he’s feeling faint. “No, that wasn’t my plan. I had no plan. Only to marry you,” he says, looking at Jones. “I care for you, Alfred.”

“I care about you too,” says Jones. “I love you,” he says as if trying it out. Behind Arthur, Ivan’s shoulders slump, and Jones shakes his head. “But…maybe I love you in a different way from how I love Ivan.”

Arthur takes a deep and shuddering breath. He nods.

“God, I’m so sorry, Arty,” says Jones, and the next thing Francis knows, Jones has filled the distance between himself and his fiancé and wrapped his arms around Arthur. “I just…wanted to be the one to take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” says Arthur. Francis can barely hear him from how his face is muffled against Jones’s chest. Still, his heart aches at the tears he hears in Arthur’s voice.

“I know,” says Jones.

Ivan and Francis make awkward eye contact over the fiancés’ heads. Neither of them knows what to do, but Ivan seems to agree that interrupting them is not the best move. Francis turns to find Matthew, who has seated himself closest to the action and is overly nonchalantly reading an article on his phone. He looks up at Francis when he approaches.

“I think we need to postpone,” says Francis. “What do you think?”

“I agree.”

* * *

Francis waits two days for news from Jones or Matthew. His cell phone is glued to his hand, and between work for other cases he refreshes his email every minute.

He doesn’t know whether the wedding is still on. After he thanked the wedding party for their time and sent them back to home and work, he left with Ivan before Jones and Arthur could discuss the matter. He caught Matthew’s disapproving glance on the way; he thinks Matthew expected that Francis would stay to comfort Arthur. But Francis suspects that Arthur still mistrusts him for hiding Jones’s and Ivan’s growing affection. And besides, Arthur is too vulnerable right now.

So Francis tells himself, anyway. He tells himself that he’s waiting to hear about the wedding because he needs to know who to cancel and what to refund. He needs to know whether the infamous Kirkland brothers will fly across the Atlantic in vain. He needs to know whether he’s getting paid, at the very least, and Arthur is quite possibly the worst person for Francis to ask about that.

So when, halfway through the third day of silence, he answers the knock on his door, his heart jolts to see Arthur.

Arthur looks tired. Not nearly as exhausted as Francis has felt, but as if he’s fought a long, slow battle and finally, wearily come home. He meets Francis’s eyes. “May I come in?”

“…Of course.” He holds the door open for Arthur, who makes his way to the couch he slept on the night before he found out about Francis’s guilt. Francis stands by the doorway, watching him settle himself.

Arthur glances at him. “Sit down, then,” he says. “Unless you prefer to stand.”

“I’ll sit.” Francis does, and sets his computer to sleep.

Arthur looks down at his clasped hands. “We’re no longer in need of your services.”

“I’m fired, then.”

“Essentially.”

“Does this have to do with the deal you made me the last time you were here?”

Arthur’s mouth twitches. “I suppose it does. Alfred and I are no longer engaged.”

He looks up at Francis and pretends not to examine him for signs of relief. He ends up disappointed; Francis frowns.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?”

“I know how much you wanted to marry him.”

“I think it’s more that I wanted to be married. And there Alfred was, such a constant friend. In a way, I think I was as confused about love as he was.” Arthur leans back against the sofa. “He and Ivan have their first date a few days from now.”

“I hope it’s not to Serendipity 3.”

Despite himself, Arthur snorts. “No, I think Alfred’s learned quite a bit about what’s romantic and what’s not. Taking your first date to the place where you got engaged is rather clearly on the ‘not’ list.”

“Ah. A bookstore, then.”

“I couldn’t care less,” says Arthur. “But he’s sworn to text me all about it. Sometimes I can hardly bear how guilty he feels about the whole affair. Not guilty enough to wait a respectful time, but that’s Alfred for you. So ready to begin his next great idea.”

“He means well,” says Francis.

Arthur looks at Francis. “I hear he’s not the only one who does.”

Francis presses his lips together. “I’ll make tea.”

He means to give himself a minute to draft his apology, but he has no chance to because Arthur follows him into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” says Arthur as Francis fills the kettle. “You were…never anything but supporting, and I used you to take out all my fears about Alfred. You didn’t—don’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve to be kept in the dark,” says Francis. He sets the kettle to boil and, to keep himself from having to look at Arthur for longer than a second, he rummages through his cabinet for mugs. “I’m sorry I lost my courage to tell you.”

“I’m sorry I rejected your call.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the moment I next saw you.”

“I’m sorry you had to watch me get drunk.”

Francis snorts and offers a small smile. “It’s certainly a different side of you.”

Arthur nods absently. He moves himself to lean on the cabinet next to the kettle. He’s staring at the speaker that Francis plays his music from. Francis assumes he needs a moment to compose himself, and invests himself in deciding whether to give Arthur the red mug or the blue one. He decides to give the blue one a quick rinse, since it’s dusty. It used to be his, but he’s been using the fleur-de-lis mug that once belonged the Jeanne, ever since Arthur served him tea on the first day he came to his apartment.

“Do you want to know when I fell in love with you?”

Francis drops the mug into the sink with a loud clatter. With soapy hands which he wipes off on a towel, he swivels around to stare at Arthur.

Arthur is still staring at the speaker, with glances at the kettle to check it for steam. He’s rolled up his sleeves and crossed his arms. “It’s not like I hadn’t suspected,” he says. “Me loving you, that is. I had a better time talking with you than with Alfred on most days, but…I thought you were a friend. Then we danced in that pub—and I only remember that a bit, so don’t ask for details—and I thought maybe there was some sort of attraction. Mostly on my part. I thought you were humoring me.

“But then,” says Arthur, “you brought me back here. And I explicitly remember seeing this speaker and asking about it, and you telling me you play music from it when you cook.” Sensing Francis’s gaping expression, he raises his green eyes to look into Francis’s. “And just…I’d never imagined anything so _perfect._ You, happy and singing and probably doing that bloody hair toss thing you do when you’re switching between tasks. Generally being the best husband anyone could ask for. And I wanted to see that. I _ached_ to see that.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “And I knew then that I’d never have such a feeling with Alfred, not if I tried for the rest of my life.

“So,” Arthur says with a helpless shrug, “I fell in love with you.”

Francis takes a moment to breathe. His heart feels too cumbersome in his chest. “Then…when Alfred called the next morning—”

“I panicked. I always considered myself monogamous. And Alfred did care, if he’d managed to hunt me down, and I felt so wrong being in a place where you’d lived with your wife, and I was about to have a married life like you’d had—or so I thought—and I was willing to overlook anything, even the Ivan situation, if I could save even a scrap of that happiness for myself.”

“You never…imagined I might feel the same way about you?”

Arthur looks at him levelly. “Francis, you had a _wife._ A woman. I thought you were straight.”

“I’m bi,” says Francis reflexively. Then he pauses. “‘Thought’?”

“Matthew told me after you left the rehearsal.” One side of Arthur’s lips quirks up. “It appears I owe you another apology for another false accusation. And I owe my not-quite-brother-in-law a heap of thanks.”

“I’d say he got the thanks he wanted the night at the pub, when he saw us dance,” says Francis. “He was the one who told me to speak to you.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You really were scared, weren’t you?”

The kettle squeals, and Francis lifts it up and pours boiling water into two mugs. He slides the red mug to Arthur.

“Of course I was,” says Francis quietly as he rummages around for tea bags. “You were the first person who made me feel alive since Jeanne’s death. You were my client, and you were promised to another man. It would be so easy to lose you.”

Arthur approaches his side and selects the tea he wants. English Breakfast, like he’d once given Francis. He takes the red mug; he automatically knows Francis will take the fleur-de-lis.

“You couldn’t lose me,” murmurs Arthur. “Seems I always come back to you anyway.”

Francis sets his hand over the one Arthur has rested on the counter.

“Are you sure?” asks Francis. “You did just end an engagement. I hear that’s a very difficult time.”

“It is,” says Arthur. “But with your permission, I want to spend that time with you.” He raises an eyebrow. “Unless Matthew has been exaggerating about how deeply in love with me you are.”

Francis outright laughs. Leans in. Captures his lips over the two steaming mugs of tea, and revels in the burden that falls from his heart and in the taste of the man he’s been waiting for.

When he pulls away, he presses his forehead against Arthur’s. “He couldn’t exaggerate if he tried.”

* * *

 

_Six months later_

“A toast!” calls Antonio. “To the two fiancés!”

Francis and Arthur raise their glasses together and salute Gilbert and Matthew, the honorees of tonight’s pub get-together. Matthew is outright blushing, and even Gilbert’s cheeks carry a pink tint as he laughs and drinks.

“So Francis,” says Gilbert as the three couples—Gilbert and Matthew, Antonio and Lovino, Francis and Arthur—finish their drinks. “You’re going to plan the wedding for free, right?”

Francis pretends to consider this request. “Matthew can have it for free,” he concludes, “but you’ll have to pay me.”

“Oh, that is such bullshit,” says Gilbert, snorting into his beer. “Who introduced you to Birdie? Me, that’s who.”

“I don’t know, Gil, maybe you should ask about the price,” says Matthew, smiling. “We might be getting a good deal either way.”

“Of course you will,” says Francis with a wink.

“If,” intones Arthur, “you’re not planning anything ridiculous. I’m not having him stolen from me every night because you decided you want a cruise ship wedding or something like that.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” says Matthew.

“I just think Lovi should do the catering,” says Antonio, wrapping an arm around his husband’s shoulders. “This could be his big break! Leaving Amante to go on to bigger and better things!”

“Only if the French bastard can get me a good gig,” says Lovino, elbowing Antonio and speaking about Francis as if he’s not right here.

“Hey, isn’t this my moment?” asks Gilbert. “Getting married over here!”

“As if you’re the first person at this table to have been engaged,” says Arthur with a roll of his eyes. Antonio and Francis look at each other, wondering if Arthur means his statement bitterly, but Gilbert only laughs.

“Yeah, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? If Birdie ends up interfering in this one too I’m going to get really confused really quick.”

“I wouldn’t,” says Matthew, kissing Gilbert’s cheek. “And it wasn’t _interfering_ , it was…”

“Nudging?” supplies Arthur. He smirks at Matthew and leans subtly closer to Francis.

“Nudging, exactly. Encouraging.”

“And thank god for that,” says Francis. He wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist and slides him even closer, until their thighs are touching.

“So when is the move-in date, anyway? For your new apartment?” asks Antonio.

“We’re waiting until the end of this month,” says Arthur. “Partner evaluations are next week, and I just have no time until they’re over.”

“I’m lucky I persuaded him to be here tonight,” says Francis, before he addresses Arthur. “You do have a tendency to disappear for days on end, don’t you?”

“I come home long enough to be in bed with you,” says Arthur indignantly. “And you’ve always taken all the covers by the time I come back!”

“I’m keeping them warm for you!”

“What’s the good of that if you tuck all the edges in under your body so I can’t grab any?”

“I don’t _mean_ to—”

“And you’re bloody hard to wake up—”

“At least I don’t flail awake every time the alarm goes off—”

“I don’t know,” says Antonio to the rest of the table, “whether to be happy or concerned that Francis chose a boyfriend he ends up fighting with all the time.”

“It’s called bickering,” says Arthur. “Trust me, you don’t want to see our fights.”

“I’ve had enough of those,” agrees Francis grimly.

“We’ve _all_ had enough of those,” Gilbert groans. “Do me a favor, you two, and don’t ever get married. Just date forever, because so far you’re zero for one on getting along during a wedding and I do _not_ want to see that again.”

Francis and Arthur look at each other. “I’d say one half for one,” says Arthur. “We got along quite well except for the last few weeks.”

“Three-fourths for one,” counters Francis. “We got along for months.”

“One fourth for one,” juts in Matthew, “to account for all the sexual tension.”

“You weren’t _there_ for the sexual tension,” says Gilbert.

“Maybe not all of it, but it multiplied exponentially by the time I met Francis,” says Matthew. “I saw them dance too, you know.”

As if on cue, the jukebox begins playing a mellow tune, characteristic of the early evening when people unwind from work before getting drunk and demanding music with a beat. Although still leaning his head against Francis’s shoulder, Arthur perks up and begins to mouth along. Because the others start talking about other nights in this pub, only Francis notices. 

“Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it’s alright...”

Francis watches Arthur half-close his eyes. He didn’t tell Arthur this the first night he brought him to drinks nights with Gilbert and Antonio, but he used to sit facing the jukebox, the farthest seat in the booth from it. Once Arthur started coming, he traded seats with Gilbert so he and Arthur would be closest—so Arthur could hear it and change the song as he wanted.

As the song rises into its crescendo, Francis breathes a heavy sigh. A sudden solemn wave of gratitude floods through him, for the warmth of Arthur on his side and the way his feathery hair tickles his cheek. For the second chance at happiness he gets.

“If we do get married,” murmurs Arthur, loud enough for only Francis to hear, “much later, eventually. I want this song in our wedding.”

“The Beatles,” says Francis. He kisses Arthur on his temple. “Why am I not surprised?”


End file.
